The Screams all Sound the Same
by Syntyche
Summary: A brainwashed Natasha Romanoff returns from a mission devoted to one purpose: take out the famous Captain America. Standing in her way: her partner, Clint Barton.
1. This Old and Empty House

Thanks to everyone who voted for this fic! And thanks to PirateKnightofthe Rings' vote it narrowly edged out the competition, so if you love it, awesome, and if it annoys you, blame Pirate. ;D Anyway, I hope you all enjoy, and please review if you'd like to see more!

Also, I don't own the Avengers. Marvel does. If _**I**_ did, the men's shirt budget would be extremely tiny ("Oops! Sorry, guys! No shirts for you! It's not in the budget!") And the Muse was inspired by Of Monsters and Men's "Little Talks," so all lyrics are credited to them. If you've never heard the song, the lead vocals are performed as a duet with 'his' and 'hers' lines and I've noted which it is before the lyric.

Rated T for um… stuff. Adult stuff. And language. And violence. Nothing too graphic, but still, safety first!

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**The Screams all Sound the Same**

By: Syntyche

One: This Old and Empty House

_Her: I don't like walking around this old and empty house…_

Natasha Romanoff often wonders how smart these guys think they are, that if they, using only their pathetically ill-equipped brains to plan this out, actually believe they've managed - through spectacular bumbling sloppiness and sheer dumb luck - to capture the notorious Black Widow.

It's a thought that always amuses Natasha - in a rather condescending _good job, look what you big boys did all by your little selves!_ way - even while she's being "interrogated," because let's face it, idiots like these would rather paw at her through her little red dress than attempt any sort of efficient or even useful questioning techniques. Natasha tilts her head pityingly at the man in front of her, almost wishing he was going to live long enough that she could give him a few pointers.

But she has a job to do, and despite whatever these guys might think, Natasha _**always**_ has the upper hand. And after all, this evening's entertainment will be provided not just by her, though she could do the job fine herself...

A jolt of pain startles Natasha from her thoughts and she looks down in annoyance to see that he's literally _poked_ her with a glowing poker - _amateur,_ the Widow sniffs disdainfully, they obviously have no idea how to torment someone effectively, and she's even _**afraid**_ of fire if the circumstances are right … in fact, the glowing embers in the hearth attract much more of her attention than Goon #1...

Deliberately Natasha refocuses, transfers her irritated look back to the face leering at her and wonders if Clint would mind terribly if she started without him.

But the sound of shattering glass fills their ears and suddenly Hawkeye's here, smashing through the window, rolling into the center of the room and leaping gracefully to his feet. Natasha wishes he wouldn't do that, has told him countless times with a sardonic roll of her green eyes that one of these days he's really going to hurt himself, but he always gives her a cocky grin and a shrug and Natasha knows Clint loves the ridiculously surprised looks on the faces of their targets when they realize that _motherfuckin' __**Hawkeye**_ has shown up to literally crash their party.

They make quick work of the half-dozen or so guys who may have actually all pissed themselves simultaneously when a clearly insane man wielding a weapon from the Paleolithic Era came hurtling through the third storey window, and when it's over Natasha shrugs off the rest of her bindings and greedily embraces her partner and kisses him fiercely. Clint looks at her in surprise, laughs, calls her a _trollop_ and a _tease_ and stalks away to scout the rest of the house; he's barely broken a sweat at their exertions, and the way his tight leathers cling lovingly to sculpted muscles catch Natasha's breath huskily. She could look at his ass for hours - and actually did once, on an op where he'd laid immobile on a balcony across from his target's window half a night, waiting patiently for the right shot.

They're not lovers. They have too much to risk for that.

But that doesn't mean Natasha doesn't wish it sometimes.

She thinks Clint might even go for it, thinks they might have been _**close**_ to that particular cliff before Clint got shipped off to the desert, before Manhattan and Loki and monsters and mind control, but if her partner was reserved before, he's almost unreachable now. It's ironic, really, that all the time Clint's been forced to spend _talking_ about what happened - and he'll keep _talking_ until SHIELD's psych department is satisfied and the Council gets off his back for something he couldn't have prevented - has made him more withdrawn and quieter than before; and although he laughs with Tony and converses with Banner and relentlessly pranks Steve and Thor with their lack of technological comprehension, Hawkeye still keeps his own cheap apartment in Bed-Stuy, still politely turns down participating in Stark's continual attempts at team-bonding extravaganzas and repeated offers of free rooms in Stark Tower.

Clint's drifting farther away, intent on working through his own issues, and it's exasperating for the woman _**he**_ helped sort herself out that he doesn't seem to want her to be there for him. It's also frustrating for Natasha since the Black Widow is a woman used to _**taking**_ what she wants; Clint's so close, so touchable, but she can't help feeling like she'll _break_ him if she's not careful.

The lock she's been picking on a small satchel clicks and opens, and Natasha pulls out a sheaf of papers with her gloved hands, scanning the information quickly and nodding in approval as she sees that it confirms what SHIELD had already suspected - which means she's off to some forsaken corner of the world to do what she does. Clint's part of this job is done for now; he already has another assignment lined up protecting Stark during some cushy conference in Switzerland, a detail that amuses both Clint and Stark greatly. Natasha suspects the boys are looking at it as an opportunity to cause trouble on SHIELD's dime; Fury's assigned her to follow out where this op intel leads: observe, infiltrate, take down. Pretty standard.

The newly scorched skin on her thigh pulls painfully when she stands, and as Natasha looks around, brow furrowed, sunlight streams in through the broken windows of the abandoned house, igniting patches of the wooden floor in a brilliant orange glow. Something about the way the light from the setting sun dances and flickers across the floor tightens Natasha's chest anxiously and coupled with her fresh burns flashes her back to memories she'd buried so deep she should never have to encounter them again. But here they are, licking at her brain like slowly building tongues of fire - _fire!_ her mind screams, _run, run, run!_

But she can't move.

She's rooted to the spot.

The sun sinks deeper and the glowing orange comes closer.

"Clint," she growls through clenched teeth. _**"Clint!"**_

He's beside her in an instant, his heavy black boots thumping across the floorboards as he slings his bow over his shoulder smoothly. "Nat?"

He almost only calls her 'Nat' when he's concerned, and just that little trigger helps pull her more back to herself, back to the present and away from the screams of her devastating and horrible past. Natasha shakes her head. "I can't … I … "

Clint immediately sees the terror in her eyes, feels the slim, rigid arm under his callused hand trembling beneath his light grasp. "It's okay, Natasha," he says calmly, his voice pitched soothing and low. Something about Clint's quiet drawl always manages to reach her on a level no one else can, and Natasha feels her breathing slowly start to calm.

"You got this," Clint says gently. "Natasha. You got this."

Natasha swallows hard, focuses on her partner's voice. With a strangled gasp she buries herself in Clint's arms, burrowing into his solidly reassuring warmth. "You got this, Natasha," Clint says again, the litany familiar and she slowly comes back, red hair pressed against his strong shoulder, and Clint tightens his grip carefully, adding, "And I've got you."

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_Him: So hold my hand, I'll walk with you, my dear…_

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Six weeks later, the assembled Avengers - minus Thor and Natasha - are sitting around Tony's common room going over "mission reports" - meaning Clint is covering a grin as Tony regales Steve and Bruce with details of their exploits in Switzerland: it turns out "trouble" doesn't even begin to cover the damage.

The elevator _pings_ innocently, and Natasha strides into the room, glancing at each of the men in turn. Clint smiles, pleased to see her, and Tony gives a half-bow from where he's seated that's somehow both gracious and slightly mocking.

"Well," Stark announces, "the fair Natasha has returned to us - "

Natasha calmly produces one of her pistols, and fires three rounds into Steve's chest.

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	2. Close Your Eyes

Well… Wow. I am absolutely floored by the response to the first chapter of this story. Thank you! I'll admit that I'm actually afraid to post more of the story, because really, how can I top the awesome attention you've all already given it? I sort of just want to slap a "The End" at the bottom of the last chapter and quit while I'm ahead. XD

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**The Screams all Sound the Same**

By: Syntyche

Two: Close Your Eyes

_Her: The stairs creak as you sleep, it's keeping me awake;_

_Him: __It's the house telling you to close your eyes …_

Predictably, chaos erupts.

Their first reaction is immediately directed to Steve, gurgling and gasping and staining Tony's expensive couch red - but even the purposefully shallow inventor doesn't give a damn about the upholstery right now.

As soon as he sees Banner's moving in to try and staunch the bleeding, Clint whips his attention to where Natasha had been standing: gone already, of course, in a flash of fiery red curls and glinting green eyes. There's a pulsing weakness stealing over Clint numbly for his partner, radiating outward from his chest in sharp, aching pains as his bright gaze darts around rapidly, immediately assessing all exit routes from the room; easy to do because it's what he does _**every**_ time he walks into a room, even at Stark's, so it's just a quick confirmation of what he already knows.

_Nat … _

It's more than an ache now; it's growing, fiery _**misery**_ that's burning the archer into ashes.

Clint has a half second to decide: help Cap or track down Natasha, but Tony makes the decision for him.

"Barton!" Stark shouts, and there's an edge of horror to his normally modulated tones. "Get your feathered ass over here!"

And Clint gets it. Steve's the one in charge. Steve always knows what the team needs to do, where everyone needs to be, while Tony's really only comfortable when he's making decisions for him alone. The inventor likes to pride himself on being an _independent narcissist, _which should be damn annoying but somehow is all part of that weird brand of Stark charm that Clint can't help but like, even if it's akin to looking into a mirror where every single part of your reflection is better-looking and richer than you.

Clint steps in, easily taking the role of team leader. He works better solo, sure, prefers it unless he's with Natasha, but he's got this.

"Jarvis," the archer directs immediately, "call 9-1-1 and Fury - we'll see who gets here first. Track Romanoff too - find out where she's at."

There's no answer.

Of _**course**_ Natasha would have thought of that.

"Stark!" Clint snaps.

"On it!" Tony replies briskly, clearly glad to look away from all the blood, and Clint's relieved to see that "on it" means that Stark's actually making the calls himself first, not trying to _**fix**_ Jarvis first so the AI can do it. Clint flashes Bruce a questioning look and Bruce directs the archer to put pressure on Steve's chest _here_ and _just like this_ and Clint complies while his mind flies back over everything Natasha did since walking into the commons. It'd all happened in less than sixty seconds, but there has to be _**something**_, something he's overlooking, something he's missing …

_Nat … damn it…_

Clint finds himself thinking the irrational thought _At least her eyes weren't glowing blue_, which brings him an immense amount of relief, when he catches Steve's own confused, wild gaze darting to his. Barton looks down, sees Steve's bright blood leaking through his fingerless gloves; the archer consciously meets the soldier's panicked eyes and forces a grin he's nowhere near actually feeling.

"Aw, Cap," Clint says wryly, "here I always thought you bled red, white, and blue. I'm disappointed."

Steve huffs a laugh around the blood bubbling from his mouth and even manages an almost-smile that's grotesque with the red highlighting his perfect teeth. Clint knows that a normal man would be unconscious, probably dead by now, but whatever turned scrawny Steve Rogers into supersoldier Captain America is clearly pulling for him now.

Banner's working furiously, Clint's assisting, Tony's doing whatever Tony does, and when they finally have a chance to take an exhausted step back and let the SHIELD guys check that Steve's stabilized as best as possible before loading him onto a gurney and taking him away, the three of them stand there for a moment, Steve's blood coating their shirts and jeans as they stare at each other in dull-eyed shock at _what the hell just happened?_

When Tony goes to the bar and pours them all something stiff and terrible, no one complains. They empty their glasses quickly, and head downstairs to pile into the SHIELD car waiting for them to follow their teammate.

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So, please just keep in mind that my ego is a fragile thing; let me know if you'd like to see more!


	3. Some Days I Can't Even Trust Myself

Hooray for you guys! Seriously! Best response to a fic I've ever had and I'm really, really grateful to every reader who has taken a minute to review/favorite/follow. You keep the Muse busy, for sure. :D

If you're following _Slipping_, barring more snowstorms the next chapter'll be up tomorrow!

**The Screams all Sound the Same**

By: Syntyche

Three: Some Days I Can't Even Trust Myself

They're dirty, rumpled, blood-spattered, and exhausted, but the three of them wait quietly for news of Steve in what passes for SHIELD's "waiting room," a dull, uninvitingly grey affair designed neither for comfort nor long-term sitting; after all, the majority of people who end up here - like Clint, frequently - don't have family who bite their nails and pace anxiously while waiting for news on a patient's various injuries.

Clint keeps his eyes trained on one corridor specifically. If this were a _**real**_ hospital, if they were _**normal**_ people, it's the way the white-coated doctor would come, checking his clipboard tiredly and asking for the "family of Steve Rogers," so he could deliver his report. But they aren't normal, not in any sense of the word, and Steve doesn't have family waiting for him: just them. Clint doesn't know the other Avengers - save Natasha, obviously - well enough to call them _family_, but hell, they didn't kick his ass to the curb after he went all apeshit thanks to that asshole Loki, so he guesses this might be as close as he's gonna come to having brothers that won't turn their back on him when he tries do the right thing.

The archer shifts irritably; he's perched on the edge of a chair that looks like it'd be comfortable enough at first, but once he sat in it he realized pretty quickly that it's actually the spawn of Satan and there's no way in hell he's gonna make it sitting on this piece of cheap shit for more than five minutes without some major protests from his back, knees, butt - pretty much everywhere. Even the scratchy tweed covering the arms is a nuisance, obviously meant to give the illusion of some kind of cushioning, but really just delivering a cleverly annoying additional torture.

_Way to go, SHIELD guys_, _good choice_! Clint gives them mental props for adding to his misery. And apparently the horrifically uncomfortable chairs are why Tony's chosen to use _**him**_ as a pillow.

The archer's shoulder chooses that moment to twinge in agreement with his brain's annoyed assessment of the furniture and Clint sighs and shifts to his left side, pressing his bicep against the back of the chair because sometimes the pressure helps dull the ache of the old wound.

A few feet away, Banner turns in his sleep and mutters something unintelligible. Despite the dour look from the peeved Agent Carter manning the intake desk - who clearly feels he has better things to do than baby-sit a trio of anxious and restless superheroes - Clint and Tony dragged out a cot from an empty room so Bruce could rest for awhile. The quiet scientist is clearly almost to the limits of his endurance after his struggle to stabilize Steve, because he isn't _**that**_ kind of doctor, damn it, but he _**is**_ the kind of guy who won't let a friend bleed out when he can at least try to help. Bruce was sourly offered a shower and a room by Carter but refuses to leave his teammates, so now he's snoring softly between disgruntled murmurs - Clint _**thinks**_ he's trying to solve equations in his sleep, because he can actually almost keep up with Bruce's intermittent mumbles - clearly confident that Clint and Tony will wake him as soon as there's news.

Tony looks tired, too - as well he should after the awesome mess they made in Switzerland, Clint reflects dryly, oh, and not to mention the fact that their teammate is fucking _**dying**_ in the other room. They were all tired before this, now they're fucking _**exhausted**_, and Tony's head keeps drifting toward Clint's shoulder until he snaps himself awake reflexively and glances around sharply to make sure nothing has gone amiss during his lapse. Clint _**should**_ tell him that it's okay, that Tony can rest too if he needs it because Clint's way too wired to sleep and is keeping watch, but truthfully and selfishly Clint really doesn't want Stark to sleep because he _**wants**_ to think about Natasha as much as he doesn't want to think about her, and it'd be really useful to have someone to bounce ideas off of right now while they're waiting for word on Steve. Clint agreed to let Banner rest because having the Hulk show up to tear apart the medical wing probably wouldn't be helpful for Steve right now, but that doesn't stop the archer from artfully shifting position and _accidentally_ elbowing Tony every time the inventor's chin starts to droop.

Eventually, though, Clint feels bad and decides to offer Stark an escape from the torture chamber-style furniture and restless waiting. "Y'know, if you wanna sleep or whatever … " he starts, but Tony cuts him off with a snort.

"You think that's even possible with your constant twitching and internal monologue-ing?" Stark asks snippily. "Shit, Barton, you talk in your head so loud Steve's probably going to pull through just to come out and tell you to shut up!"

Clint turns to him, mouth agape, but Tony ignores him, his sporadic attention caught by something else. "Well, well," the inventor snarks sardonically, making no effort to do anything more than sprawl his lanky body wherever he wants - he's now lying halfway across an extremely uncomfortable Clint - "If it isn't tall, dark, and furious."

The archer could kick himself - if Tony weren't draped across his left leg - when Fury strides in, all glower and eye patch and flapping trenchcoat that Phil used to covertly point out shouldn't even really unfurl in that atypically majestic way since there's no cross-breeze indoors. Clint knows he should have called Fury himself, even if he had been a little distracted trying to keep at least _**some**_ of Steve's blood from leaking out of his ravaged chest.

"Barton, report!" Fury barks, all the weight of his presence settling on the agent most directly under his command - who just happens to be the rogue agent's partner. Clint wonders quickly if Natasha felt this same kind of nauseating turmoil turning her stomach when she had to report on _**him**_. Clint straightens as much as possible, shooting Tony a dark look as he shoves the inventor bodily to the side so he can stand smartly; the archer doesn't want to give the Director any inkling whatsoever that he's operating as anything less than the perfect, by-the-book SHIELD operative - _channel Hill_, he suggests to himself disdainfully - because Clint's well aware that it's _**Natasha**_ who is on the line here, and he himself doesn't exactly have the best track record.

"Rogers, Stark, Banner, and I were in the main commons at Stark's - "

"Discussing things of _**super**_ importance," Tony interjects, a little salty at being ignored so of course he has to add something. Clint gives him a warning glare that he knows will do absolutely _**nothing**_ and continues,

" - when Agent Romanoff entered, sir. She didn't say anything, just walked in and fired three shots directly at Rogers, all of them hitting him in the upper chest." A bitter taste fills Clint's mouth as he adds, "Romanoff had already disabled Stark's AI system so she was able to escape while we tried to stabilize Rogers."

Clint pauses reluctantly, wondering if he should add more, if there was _**anything**_ Nat had said or done that should trigger an idea. He's forced to conclude, "There was no apparent motive for her actions, sir."

"Maybe she just got sick of Steve pining for the '40's - I know _**I**_ am," Tony offers helpfully, but Clint catches his narrowed eyes, understands that the inventor's choosing to display his often questionable sense of humor because it's how he deals with stress.

Fury shakes his head wearily; for a moment he almost looks regretful but it passes before it can really register it even existed. "We currently have no motives or leads on Romanoff's whereabouts. We're attempting to track her now - Barton, I want you here with Rogers," the Director orders sharply. "Clean up, get what you need, report back here ASAP. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off: you'll switch only with Hill unless you hear directly from me, is that understood?"

Clint nods briskly; his gaze is shadowed but he's determined. "Yes, sir."

Fury must see something in his agent's eyes or bearing that gives him pause; he gives the archer a long look in which he's clearly assessing Clint's metal, but apparently he's satisfied by what he sees. "Good," he affirms. "Get cleaned up and get back. I'll be staying with Rogers until then."

"Is there any news?" Bruce asks, sitting up slowly and swinging his legs over the side of the cot; he looks like he feels as rumpled and sticky as he looks.

"None," Fury says, and with a glance at Bruce and Tony's wrinkled and bloody clothes he adds, "You two clean up too; we have work to do."

"Same lock code?" Clint questions Fury with a slight furrow.

"Still waiting for you to come home," Fury confirms quietly and Clint smiles tightly; as they turn to walk away from the Director, Tony's the only one who hears Clint mutter something along the lines of "like _**hell**_ I'm moving back here," before the archer is leading his teammates down a twisted maze of corridors he clearly knows by heart. Clint does try once unenthusiastically to dissuade Tony and Bruce from following him to his quarters, but it doesn't really feel right to any of them to split up, so they shrug it off and follow the archer anyway.

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_It's amazing,_ Tony thinks, how calm they all look, when he's pretty sure the other two guys are just as anxious, just as worried, as he's feeling but burying under layers of being concerned but-not-in-a-way-that-will-give-him-wrinkles.

"So, how are we going to find your girlfriend?" he asks, and Clint stops, turns, and fixes him with an earnest look that's almost free of the grim shielding he usually locks into place. It's very … _**intense**_ … and Tony almost squirms a little.

"Nat's going to find out if Steve makes it," Clint says quietly. "Whatever's going on with her, whatever _**this**_ is … she'll come back to finish the job."

Enlightenment dawns like someone's flipped a light switch, and Tony suddenly realizes what a horrible thing Fury has set Clint up to do: the archer may have to kill his _partner,_ the woman he already saved from herself once; the woman who helped save _**him**_ from Loki.

That really sucks.

The archer finally stops at a narrow door and punches a code into the keypad; he hesitates as the door swings open silently, listening into the blackness, watching for darker shapes against the dark - whatever the hell Clint thinks he's doing, because if he can't feel safe _**here**_ on SHIELD's main base, Tony muses, well, where the hell can he?

Apparently Clint's satisfied there are no monsters lurking in the shadows because he reaches in to hit the lights, though Tony notes that the archer's hand is resting lightly on the butt of the gun strapped to his thigh.

No one's there to greet them, but Clint's quarters are a fucking _**mess**_.

It takes Tony a few seconds to realize that it's not normal 'bachelor always on the go' mess like he gleefully lives in when Pep's not around, but that the archer's overturned furniture and shredded clothes scattered across the floor, along with the graffiti-style _TRAITOR _and _MURDERER_ and other, more creative epithets and expletives scrawled across the bare walls are probably not Clint's décor of choice.

Clint glances around, mutters, "Huh, this is new," and proceeds to pick his way over the torn pages of the few books he'd yet to move to his new apartment as he gathers up shirts and pants and examines them with a critical eye to see if he can find anything undamaged. "Shower," he grunts by way of explanation as he disappears into the small bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Bruce absently picks up a torn shirt - Tony guesses the scientist is pretty much _**the**_ expert on clothing repair, seeing as he must go through a dozen or more shirts a week every time the Hulk makes an appearance. Thank _**God**_ Bruce's pants stretch with him because Tony's super-sure he doesn't want to see … _that_ … in Hulk-size.

Bruce exchanges an awkward 'what do we do now?' look that Tony returns with an equally awkward 'I can't believe I was just thinking about your junk' look.

"I don't think there's much we can do about … this," Bruce mumbles, waving a hand to encompass the mess of Clint's damaged possessions, but he starts picking stuff up anyway, and righting overturned furniture. Clint returns a few brief minutes later, dressed in clean black cargo pants and towel drying his short hair; Tony catches a glimpse of the impressive amount of scarring the archer's displaying and he taps a long finger against his ARC reactor absently, thinking of his own grotesquely ugly markings jaggedly ringing the device keeping him alive.

Clint shrugs into a long-sleeved black shirt and begins a purposeful hunt for a new satchel since the one he's just put his small pile of clothes in has a large slash through the bottom. He gives Tony an eyeroll that's distinctly longsuffering and eventually gives up and rolls the bundle of clothing into a compact ball that he wraps another shirt around.

"Shower if you want," the archer offers, re-buckling his holsters, "and lock the door behind you when you leave. You know, to keep undesirables out," he finishes dryly, his tired smirk illustrating his disgust at the apparent uselessness of his door's locking mechanism, and then he's off to check on Steve without a look back.

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You know the drill! Please review if you'd like to see more! And Natasha comes back in the next chapter (oooooh XD)


	4. It's Killing Me to See You This Way

Thanks, reviewers! You're awesome. What else can I say but thank you? :D

No, seriously, what else can I say? naked Clint? dark Natasha? I take requests! XD

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The Screams All Sound the Same

By: Syntyche

Four: It's Killing Me to See You This Way

The hawk is peering down into the dim quiet of Rogers' room.

He glares into the shadows, craning his neck to catch every noise: the hum of machinery and beeping of Steve's monitors, clattering footsteps up and down the hall, whispers of shifting fabric that sigh across his hearing. Clint's callused fingertips are white where they grip his bow and his left knee - jacked up by the Chitauri - is protesting this long period of immobility and is going to give him hell when he finally moves it. His body is as taut and fine as one of his bowstrings.

He's willing himself to be calm, to be utterly in control and completely motionless even though every single part of his being wants to run, to shout his partner's name and fling open any damn door he can find to see if Nat's behind one of them. Maybe she'll recognize him, maybe not, but he needs to find her.

He can't leave her this way.

Clint hates that he's lying in wait for his partner, his best friend, the woman who knows him better than anyone else. Nat likes to think in terms of debts and ledgers, but Clint holds that they've saved each other's asses so many times over the years it's really a wash at this point. It's just what they _**do**_ for each other. And maybe a small part of him worries that Natasha keeps tallies like that because she's waiting for the day that they'll be even and can effectively go their own ways guilt-free.

But he doesn't think so.

Much.

On his good days.

Clint exhales almost imperceptibly and forces himself to blink. He's been staring, glassy-eyed, at the unconscious Rogers since he took over from Fury six-and-a-half hours ago. Clint hates Fury for this assignment as much as he's grateful for it: the archer knows he wouldn't be able to stomach it if it were anyone else posted here, waiting for Natasha to show up to finish what she's started. The fact that he has to trade off with Hill every twelve hours burns under his skin, but Clint grudgingly concedes that he has to sleep sometime and there's no way he's gonna screw this up for Nat because he was too stubborn to take his naps and eat his vegetables.

SHIELD's on the lookout for the Black Widow, but Clint and Fury both accept that even the exceptional security measures of SHIELD aren't going to stop a ruthless and determined Natasha Romanoff.

To date, only one man has been able to do that: the man who brought her to SHIELD and is waiting for her now in the air vent over Steve's room.

Rogers sighs a little in his induced sleep, his breath fogging the oxygen mask strapped securely over his nose and mouth. Steve's holding his own and it's comforting to the other Avengers: they've all seen too much death, too much destruction of late to take another loss, especially someone as _good_ and _wholesome _as Captain freakin' America, who sure as hell doesn't deserve to get taken out like this.

Even with the bandaging and IVs, Steve still looks like he can kick serious ass without batting a blonde eyelash and Clint takes heart in that. Steve's outlook is surprisingly good for a man who took three bullets to the chest, but he's also _the_ supersoldier and Clint supposes that's got to be good for something other than flinging that ridiculously heavy shield around and rescuing kittens from trees. Clint's actually a little jealous in an amused sort of way: Natasha once gleefully informed the hawk of how his usual parade of nurses likes to wax poetic about how _innocent_ and _young_ Clint looks when he's asleep, which is neither fair nor correct because One, Clint hasn't felt innocent or young in longer than he can recall, and Two, when sleeping/unconscious/comatose, the Infamous Hawkeye should be more correctly discussed using terms like _ruggedly handsome_ or perhaps _durable_, with his _stormy blue eyes closed in manly slumber_…

Clint's lips twist on a small grin as he realizes the crazy train of his rambling thoughts would have been derailed by Coulson long before now, with an amused admonishment to cut the chatter and just _take the shot, already, Barton_, _so we can wrap this up and go home_.

But Phil's gone and Nat's missing, and Clint is … well, Clint's fucked up, to be sure, but that's kinda been the story of his life so he talks to the SHIELD shrinks as mandated and wears down his fingers on the range til they bleed, and then he goes home to his crappy little apartment to have pizza with his dog and pretend to sleep at night. Clint realizes it's been a long fucking time since he's slept last, and an even longer time since he's slept the normal kind of sleep that helps normal, mostly unblemished people to rest at night.

Clint rubs a hand across his forehead, wondering. Shit, how long _**has**_ it been?

_Doesn't matter_, he decides resolutely.

Only Nat matters.

Clint resettles himself grimly, tightens his grip on his bow.

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It doesn't happen anticlimactically, like in the very last few minutes of his shift just before he's about to change places with Hill and would have missed it, or in the dead of night when he's about to stereotypically fall asleep on his watch so all stereotypical hell can break loose.

First of all, the hawk _**doesn't**_ fall asleep on his watch.

_**Ever**_.

Secondly, Nat never does anything anticlimactically. Quietly, of course, discreetly, hell yeah, but the payoff the Black Widow delivers always matches - or exceeds - the anticipation.

It happens almost exactly in the middle of Clint's third twelve-hour shift. Tony and Pepper are visiting, as evidenced by the overwhelming abundance of flowers Pepper has arranged to brighten up Steve's room that incidentally are making Clint's nose itch and ratcheting up the archer's irritation a few notches.

_What kind of asshole am I,_ Clint muses dryly with self-mocking awe, that his first thought is annoyance that all of Pepper's brightly thoughtful arrangements are blocking some of his vantage points?

Actually, Clint's well aware of the kind of person he thinks he is. He's had _**way**_ too much time to himself to these past few days, and he's not exactly thrilled with the dark thoughts his mind has been harboring. He's _**this close**_ to asking Bruce how he feels about maintaining a comm link just so he has someone to talk to. He'd ask Tony, too, but _**Clint's**_ the one who does the inane chatter, and that's just the way it works.

The hawk's watching from the vent as usual as Pepper quietly excuses herself to take a call and Tony strikes up a conversation with the unconscious Steve. The joking, one-sided discussion is clearly directed at the archer in the ceiling - at least, Clint assumes Tony's joking, otherwise, the hawk realizes, he should maybe sort of watch out for the torch Tony's apparently carrying for him.

Clint stifles a snort. Not that he isn't amused by Tony's exaggerated descriptions of the "archer he'd become bromantically involved with" and his hopes that Steve "won't be jealous." Pepper returns and tells Tony they should leave, it's getting late - it's almost one in the morning - and so they do, with a sweet goodbye to both Steve and Clint from Pepper, and an uncommonly serious admonishment from Tony to call as soon as Steve stirs or Clint needs something.

Clint shifts position fractionally, his burning eyes tracking the hourly comings and goings of the medical personnel doing their damnedest to keep Captain America alive. The one a.m. nurse comes in as scheduled and Clint's eyes narrow as he immediately realizes that it's not Steve's usual nurse, the one who was here an hour ago, the one who should still have an hour of her shift left. She's the same height, the same dark hair braided into a coil at the nape of her neck, the same dull scrubs, but …

Clint leans forward, looks closer.

… But there's something about the sway of rounded hips that were a little slimmer an hour ago. The noiseless grace this woman moves with that she didn't possess before. Even that her hands are just a little larger than they were.

But mostly, it's the way he swears the air crackles when they're together. They're more attuned to each other than two people should rightfully be.

She's moving toward Steve so Clint doesn't hesitate: he drops down from the vent, landing lightly with his knees bent and an arrow already nocked.

"Hey, lady," he says grimly, "How 'bout you don't make another move?"

She freezes but he knows it's not in fear; she always tenses right before attacking.

Natasha spins but Clint's already anticipated her next three moves: she's acting on instinct so Clint knows which routine she'll fall back on from their years of sparring together. The Widow's wrist slaps against his open palm and he closes his fingers and locks her arm into place. She hisses, green eyes snapping fire under the heavy crop of dark hair framing her blank face: she wants to hit, kick, _**bite**_ him, but the hawk's got her and he shakes her harshly, one hand wrapped around her wrist, the other tossing his bow to the end of Steve's bed carefully so he can dig the fingers of his right hand into her shoulder as she's scrabbling for something - one of her knives, probably - just out of her reach in the unfamiliar and baggy scrubs.

Natasha's leg shifts as she primes to attack him in a most unholy place, and Clint shoves his knee between her thighs to keep her from twisting and kicking.

"Nat!" Clint demands sharply, glaring into eyes he recognizes but doesn't: she's none too happy with her attacker, but Natasha appears to recognize him because she stops trying to claw his eyes out and her expression changes in a heartbeat from rage to ... _lust? _turning the corners of her perfectly red lips up in a predatory smile.

"Hawkeye," she purrs throatily, wriggling farther _**up**_ his thigh instead of off, and Clint's thankful she's not in her catsuit. _Oh, fucking hell_, Clint thinks, because he's seen his partner do this a dozen times to a poor smitten mark, and he knows every nuance of her act from the seduction to the kill.

He's pretty sure she's not acting.

The door to Steve's room slams open as Tony strides back in, glancing around quickly for something.

"Forgot my - " he mutters, then does a double-take at the compromised couple and his irritation vanishes into a high-pitched exclamation. "Holy shit, Barton, is _**now**_ really the time to be getting it on with a nurse? _In Steve's room?_" Stark actually looks impressed.

Natasha flinches at the intrusion, her lust sliding away into primal desperation at being suddenly outnumbered. She struggles ferociously but Clint's got her in an iron grip. "Stark!" he grits out as her forehead nearly crunches into his nose, "It's Romanoff! Do something!"

It only takes a second for Tony to grasp what's happening. He wades into the fray and brings a vase - brought by Pepper mere hours ago - down onto Natasha's head. Clint looks at Tony in shock as Natasha crumples with a gasp between them; they settle her on the floor gently as Tony snarks,

"Let's hope she can be as easily recalibrated as you, huh, Feathers?"

"Sure," Clint mutters darkly, "Thanks for the reminder. Call the boss, will you?"

Tony leans back on his haunches to contact Fury, and as he does Natasha bolts upright in panic, eyes darting around like a trapped cat as she screeches in Russian at a man whose name they don't recognize even though her blankly terrified gaze is locked onto Clint's face. The item she'd been grabbing for before - that Clint had assumed was a knife - turns out to be a syringe that she clutches with shaking fingers and without hesitation plunges into the meat of the archer's thigh before any of them have really grasped what's happening.

"Shit!" Clint gasps at the sting and the sudden heat that races through his system and he shoves her away bodily, staggering to his feet as Tony lunges forward again to grab the Widow's arm. There's no need to restrain Natasha further, though: her eyes scared and huge and no longer unfocused as she stares at the depressed syringe in her hand and then up at her partner.

"Oh, Clint," she whispers brokenly, face crumpling. "I've killed you."

"Well, that's just fucking great," Clint sighs, backing up to lean wearily against Steve's tray table. His body is already folding in on itself and he sinks to his knees, his chin falling forward to his chest. Tony's hands are on Clint's shoulders as he slumps forward, his vision greying out, and Natasha _**could**_ be escaping right now but she's not, she just curls against the hawk, mewling quiet, heart-rending noises that shouldn't come from the infamous Black Widow.

And then the pain really sets in. Clint's body arches, and as tortured screams rip from his throat, Clint finds himself wishing that if Natasha really _**has**_ killed him, that it will just end soon.

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Oh, what? You think the worst is over? You think Natasha is all better and Steve is safe? And that poor Clint's story is done? Better review if you want to know for sure! XD


	5. Little Talks

In case I didn't mention it before, some of the concepts - such as Clint's apartment in Bed-Stuy and his dog Arrow - come from the current Hawkeye series by Matt Fraction, of which I have a love/hate relationship with since Clint is mostly awesomely BAMF but also for some reason needs to have his ass saved by a teenage girl in every issue except the first one. Wtf?

Also, sorry about the choppiness of the writing … I feel like this fic isn't up to my usual grammatical efforts, but for some reason it's really fighting me on developing fluid sentence structure. But if I wait until I feel like it's _**perfect**_ I'll never update it. Sigh!

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The Screams All Sound the Same

By: Syntyche

Five: Little Talks

_Her: There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back_

Quietly, tiredly, Natasha sits on the narrow, dirty steps in the poorly-lit stairwell of Clint's apartment building, her head resting against a wall spattered with stains, some of which she can identify, most of which she'd rather not.

It's easier, somehow, to sit here and not think about much of anything than to go into the place that, of course, reminds her of him more than anywhere else.

Eventually, though, she rises smoothly to her feet, lacking her usual grace but still fluid and poised, and trudges up the rest of the stairs to stop at a door with peeling paint and more than a few gouges chunked out of it. She pulls her keyring from her jeans pocket and methodically opens the multiple locks Clint uses; he's added a few more since the Loki ordeal, and she numbly unlocks these as well.

The apartment is dark and smells like gun oil and dog and Clint and old pizza. It almost makes her cry, but Natasha Romanoff doesn't cry, doesn't show weakness, and she feels like it'd dishonor Clint somehow to be standing here in his living room crying because he's still got the disassembled pieces of his Makarov lying neatly on his battered coffee table.

Clint's dog - Arrow - is in the custody of one of Clint's neighbors for now, she knows. Unlike Clint, Nat's not too fond of animals, especially of the mangy mangled variety such as Clint's stray mutt. If she _**must**_ be around animals Natasha prefers the strong, independent purebreds with well-honed instincts for tracking and hunting; it _**is**_ difficult, though, not to feel a small amount of affection and gratitude for the one-eyed, patched-together dog that once saved Clint's life. Clint loves Arrow - he'd tried unsuccessfully to rename the hapless mutt but the dog wasn't buying it - and therefore Natasha feels a warm regard for Arrow.

Natasha moves mechanically through the apartment, throwing out food in the fridge that's starting to turn an unhealthy color and dumping out the disgustingly crusty coffee still sitting in the slowly staining pot from who knows when. _Of course_ _the coffee's still in the pot_, Natasha smiles a little, because Clint doesn't believe in coffee mugs or niceties like that.

Natasha thinks she should clean something but everything's pretty neat; Clint's been something of a neat freak for as long as she's known him, but it makes sense: every aspect of Clint's life is about keeping his shit together, whether it's the things that he owns or the compartmentalizing he does to keep himself sane yet still function in the role his fucked-up life's put him in.

She misses him.

She misses him so goddamn much it fucking _**hurts**_ and the assassin buries the rising emotion deep, deep down into the darkest space she can find that isn't already occupied by the messed-up shit that's her own life.

She can't miss him, because it was missing him that put her in this hell in the first place. She'll never tell a soul, no one, _**ever**_, that that's how they got to her, by exploiting a weakness she'd been hiding for years, a weakness she'd barely acknowledged until it had been used against her, turned her, made everything white and blank. And then she'd almost killed Steve, and now Clint is …

Natasha clenches her fists hard enough to mark bloody crescents in her palms.

She stops at the bedroom door because she doesn't want to go in here. The rest of the apartment was bad enough, but this space is even more _**Clint**_, even more of what she can't face.

But she can't afford to be weak again. Natasha squares her shoulders, turns the knob and the door slides open noiselessly. Her knees wobble as she enters Clint's bedroom, because there's his guitar in the corner, his Chucks under the bed, his SHIELD-issue jacket draped over his desk chair.

The blinds are drawn, the room is dark. She wants to lie on the bed, pull his pillow to her chest, and sob. To try and ease the demons clamoring at her for allowing herself to be used _**again**_to hurt, to kill people she cares about.

_Monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for_, she'd told Clint when she'd reassured him that what happened with Loki wasn't his fault. Unfortunately, she couldn't say the same for herself. A moment of vulnerability was all it had taken to crumble the mighty Black Widow, and that was unforgivable.

She's been as soundless as possible, but as she glances longingly toward the bed she immediately latches onto a pair of pained blue eyes watching her.

"Nat."

His voice is hoarse, rough from screaming and dehydration and the myriad of other things that had attacked his system after she'd loaded him up with the drug meant for Rogers.

"Clint," she says quietly. _How are you feeling?_ is a question she neither considers asking nor wants to ask.

He lifts a hand to her and even in the dim light her sharp eyes catch the way it trembles. Inwardly she sneers at this sign of weakness even as she hates herself for it - especially since Clint isn't asking for comfort, he's _**offering**_ it.

"C'mere, Tasha," he says tiredly and she acquiesces though she doesn't want to. He catches her fingers gently and pulls her to the bedside; the assassin slips off her shoes and crawls in next to the archer, feeling the satisfying and also completely unwanted way her body molds neatly to his. Clint turns his head so he can cough harshly, a wet, heavy sound that curls her lip bitterly, and she feels the shudder that runs through his taut body as he pants a little to get his breath back.

_Focus on the good_, she tells herself. Clint's pale, he's exhausted, he's sick, but he's _**alive**_.

No thanks to her, of course.

"Stop it," he mumbles wearily; he buries his face in her hair and she wonders if he knows what he's doing to her, if he knows that guilt and desire are warring within her, consuming her, frightening her with their intensity. "You didn't know what you were doing."

"Yeah, you accepted that real well yourself," Natasha mutters back, and she feels a little bitchy about it but she also knows he's still struggling to accept for himself the platitudes he so easily offers her. Shit, his hips are against her ass and Natasha bites her lip to keep a groan from slipping between her teeth at the hot swell of need that bubbles past her guilt; _who's the tease now?_ she wants to demand of him, but she also knows that Clint's not trying to tease her; that Clint, more than anything right now, is just looking for the familiar, for strength, for steadiness, because he's just back from the med center at SHIELD where he's been through another agonizing treatment to rid his body of her disgusting and vile cocktail and he's not done yet.

"Where today?" she asks to cover the acrid taste of her undeservedly bitter retort and Clint shifts slowly as he considers.

"Abidjan," the archer finally answers, and Natasha nods because it's one of the missions she remembers and she can relate the details without much trouble and this should please Clint since he's been trying to jog the missing spots in her memories once they discovered that not _**all**_ of Natasha had come back from this last foray as the pawn of someone else's whims.

So she curls against him even though it's the last place she wants to be - and the _**only**_place she wants to be - and they pretend everything's normal, that she isn't responsible for the fact that he's slowly dying and there might not be a miracle - or whatever - to save them this time.

_Him: Well, tell her that I miss our little talks…_

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Thanks for the comments, I really appreciate them! My work schedule has changed so I don't have a lot of time for writing right now, but the awesome feedback definitely reminds me to keep at it so please, please keep reviewing if you can :D totally makes my day and inspires the Muse.


	6. Buried With Our Past

The Screams All Sound the Same

By: Syntyche

Six: Buried With Our Past

They're clustered in the TV room at Stark's, watching some movie Natasha isn't even remotely interested in. Stark had offered the expected, good-natured whining about them not using his _**actual**_ theater to watch whatever this garbage was - she thought maybe it had elves in it or something equally ridiculous and childish - but the fantastically enormous screen that Stark dotes on is terrible for the migraine Clint's quietly nursing, and at least here Steve can stretch out comfortably in a recliner instead of cramming his large, healing frame into a theater chair.

It occurs to Natasha that they're sitting around like old friends who actually get together for social purposes, which is an uncomfortable thought for the Black Widow, to say the least.

Natasha shifts a little closer to Clint, but not close enough that they'll touch in any way, since unbeknownst to him but burning into every fiber of her being are the guilt and desires that are so close to the surface that when she swallows she swears she can still taste him from that seemingly long ago kiss he knew better than to tease her about without knowing how much it had singed her.

Clint tosses her a tired smile; she barely catches the upturned corners of his lips from behind the hand he's fanned over his face, shielding some of the screen's light from reaching his currently overly-sensitive eyes. The fingers of his other hand twitch toward her in a gesture he no doubt means to reassure but it makes Natasha bite the inside of her cheek sharply. _He doesn't hate her_.

She wishes he would.

It would be so much easier to deal with this slowly crumbling Clint if he blames her, if he despises her, if he scorches her with belittling and furious and pleading words like she sears herself with. She almost desperately wants to hate him, because if she does it will somehow easier when he … _when he __**leaves**_ _her_ … if they aren't Clint and Natasha, but are somewhere closer to Agents Barton and Romanoff.

But he doesn't blame her. Her hawk just watches her, just gives her that brilliant smile that dims a little more every day as the vibrancy fades from his life, nods his acceptance to the increasingly desperate Stark and Banner and quietly submits to test after experiment after test as they work almost non-stop to find _**something**_ that'll stop the contamination spreading through the archer's body.

They haven't given up, but at Clint's insistence, they're taking a break tonight to mark the fact that Steve's back at the tower as of this afternoon.

A cough to her right draws Natasha's bitter attention to the supersoldier but she doesn't turn her head; she bites her cheek harder and tastes blood but she won't look at the man sitting across the coffee table, propped up with a multitude of pillows and blankets.

Steve's a little better, Clint's a little worse.

Both of them have her to thank.

She shouldn't be here.

"I have to go," the Widow mutters suddenly, unfolding her legs to clamber to her feet. Clint catches her wrist - his reflexes are still incredible - shakes his head once and pulls her back down. Natasha glares at him fiercely but he gives her an encouraging smile instead.

"It's fine," the hawk says, his voice gravelly from the intermittent fits of coughing that sound like they're shredding his lungs from the inside out. "You need them," he says softly, and she understands what he's telling her: she'll need them to watch her when he can't do it any longer; she'll need them because she's losing the one person who saves her from herself day after day.

She wants to hate him even more right now.

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_Her: Soon it will be over, and buried with our past… _

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_He grins at her, nocks an arrow expertly. His sandy hair has grown shaggy and flops into his bright eyes but he patiently ignores it, like he ignores so many things that ought to drive him crazy - and this drives __**her**__ crazy because everything should be __**just so.**_

"_Ready?" he asks expectantly, and she snorts disbelievingly. _

"_Fifty American dollars you can't make the shot," she wagers, fully confident in her assessment: it's an almost impossible shot, and her new partner can't possibly be as good as he says he is._

"_One hundred," he barters, and his shit-eating grin widens until it digs under her skin - he's doing this deliberately and she huffs in irritation. "Get ready for some hawk and awe, baby," he says with a wink, and she can't remember if he makes the shot or not (of course he does); what she does remember is how strange it feels to have husky laughter bubble from her throat - it's such an unfamiliar thing - and it might be the first time she notices the way the corded muscles of his biceps bead with sweat and strain against the black fabric of his t-shirt. He's looking at her too, unreadable as he freezes at the image of his stern and unflappable partner giggling, her eyes laughing and her entire image transformed from ice queen to a thing of living, perfect beauty._

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_Him: We used to play outside when we were young, and full of life, and full of love… _

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_The top of the building they're standing on beneath a clear sky shifts and fades, and the Black Widow's leaning against a bar, the memory of that day and its laughter pressed far back into a corner of her mind as she focuses on the job and ignores her loneliness and the partner and unresolved emotions she'd left behind when they'd gone their separate ways, him to Switzerland with Stark and her to this goddamn craphole PA-ing for a guy she's trying to get close enough to that she can give him a lethal taste of her Widow's Bite. _

_A man sidles up to her, gives her a line she doesn't really hear because she's struck by his short, sandy hair, his compact body, his bright blue eyes that don't change color like her hawk's but somehow, tonight, seem close enough that she lets him buy her a drink … _

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Something startles Natasha out of dreams she's terrified of.

Her body shoots upright as her clenched fist flies to her mouth, stifling screams that are just beginning to break the surface. Beside her, in the large bed in her room at Stark's, Clint shifts and mutters something unintelligible but doesn't waken, and it's a testament of how exhausted he is that he stays asleep, buried beneath his own dreams that aren't yet bad enough to wake him. Natasha hesitantly drags shaking fingers through his hair to try and calm herself; the simple, repetitive motion sends the archer further into sleep with a sigh, and helps slow her breathing as she brings herself more firmly under control. She settles back into sleep, still alert if Clint needs her - one small act of penance she can offer - but it isn't long before she awakens again, a single, recurring thought pounding through her mind:

She has work to do.

Quickly, methodically, she rises and sheds her sleeping clothes for dark cargo pants and a black shirt. She's lacing up her boots when the familiar whisper crosses her mind:

_Kill him._

She's reaching automatically for the knife in her bag when she stops herself suddenly, shakes her red curls, and carefully finishes tying off her boots and tucking her laces in. Then she takes her knife, and looks down at Clint.

_Kill him._

The long blade of the thick knife presses to his throat; she just needs to push a little harder to open a line of red that would spill the hawk's lifeblood all over the cream-colored sheets.

But she pulls back.

_Hawkeye is not the target_, she tells herself dully.

If she were in control of her mind she'd clinically reassess and realize the tactical mistake she's about to make, but her mind no longer functions with Natasha Romanoff's thoughts and the Black Widow casually dismisses the dying man before her as no longer a threat, notes that the contaminants shutting him down have been slowed by Stark and Banner, and SHIELD's intervention, but not stopped. She would mourn him if she remembered that Clint Barton existed below Hawkeye's exterior, but her mind has narrowed to focus on a single, precise instruction:

_Kill him._

She sets off to find Captain America.

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Reviews feed the Muse like chocolate feeds the soul. Please review! :D


	7. Your Mind is Playing Tricks on You

**The Screams All Sound the Same**

By: Syntyche

Seven: Your Mind is Playing Tricks on You

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_Her: Some days I don't know if I am wrong or right…_

_Him: Your mind is playing tricks on you, my dear… _

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Clint Barton is long accustomed to going from sleep to instant awareness in the space of a heartbeat. In the next heartbeat, his nearest weapon is in his hand or his fingers are wrapped around the throat of the threat, and his brain is assessing the situation and immediate exit routes.

But that was before.

Now, it's getting harder and harder to wake up because both his body and his brain are working against him: his brain thinks it's doing him a favor by keeping him fitfully unconscious and mostly away from the pain, and his ailing body tends to agree.

Tonight, however, there's still enough of Hawkeye left in the unraveling shreds that when the bed dips and resettles and the now accustomed-to presence of Natasha disappears, the archer's mind flags a question regarding her destination that it waits impatiently for him to slowly process an answer to. Nothing satisfactory springs to mind - he fell asleep with his hearing aids in, so he can at least discern that she isn't heading toward the bathroom or kitchen, but that she's dressing instead, pulling on clothes she'd tossed over a chair the night before when she'd gently settled Clint in her bed after ignoring his protestations over being fine to go back to his apartment.

Clint can't quite force his gritty eyes open yet so he just listens, his body still mostly asleep and his brain begging the rest of him to follow, and he's just about to give in when he hears the whisper of bootlaces being tied swiftly. This confuses him, because he'd assumed she was heading for the gym downstairs, but boots certainly aren't Nat's standard workout gear and Clint finds himself hopelessly demanding his body come to life so he can open his damn eyes and see what the hell's going on.

Clint freezes when he feels the air around him shift and a cold line of metal at his throat. Suddenly a little more alert, Clint frantically orders his body to _reverse course!_ and _stay still stay still stay still!_ because even on his best days (which he hasn't really had one of in awhile) he'd have a hard time getting the drop on Nat when she's already got her knife on his neck.

For a split second Clint thinks this might actually be better, because he's being eaten alive from the inside out anyway and a swift slice to the jugular at Natasha's hands will doubtlessly be less painful than what's waiting for him now, but there are two problems with that scenario: _One_, Clint doesn't actually want to die (while resignedly accepting that his entire life has taught him that rarely ever get what you want,) and _Two_, there's that whole "at Nat's hands" part, because Clint knows that if they somehow manage to bring the real Nat all the way back, she'll never forgive herself for dispatching her partner even if it did turn out to be a mercy kill in the end.

But at the moment it's up to Natasha if he lives or dies and the archer can't do a damned thing about it. Clint forces himself to lie as still as possible, to _just breathe, don't startle her, no sudden moves_ because Nat's reflexes are wound tighter than one of his bowstrings right now.

A half-second more of terror he's trying to ignore sending acid into his gut and the pressure lifts. Clint sighs inaudibly as Natasha moves away from the bed.

His relief, however, is short-lived.

"Kill him," Natasha mutters grimly under her breath, and even though Clint's brain is compromised it doesn't - thankfully - take a genius to figure she's talking about Steve. The instant the doors clicks softly closed on her silent footfalls Clint forces his body into action, begging for the adrenaline rush he'd crushed to save his own life to kick in to save Steve now. Clint hisses for Jarvis to discreetly alert Tony and the AI informs him politely that Stark is already awake and working in the lab - of course. Clint has Jarvis lock down Steve's room and he shakily pushes himself to his feet as he calls for Tony to meet him there.

Swelling waves of vertigo threaten to swamp him but they pass after a minute and Clint grabs his bow and throws his quiver over his shoulder. His leg buckles under the extra weight, but Clint grits his teeth and tightens the bandage on his thigh around the rotting flesh beneath it.

He has to get to Steve before Nat does something terrible.

Clint staggers to the door, sure-footed and noiseless despite his exhaustion weighting him down. The sweet surge of begged-for adrenaline courses through him, making him forget all but the most persistent aches as he grimly stalks the halls toward his target: the air vent he knows will take him Steve's floor the fastest. Stark's on his way too but Clint has his doubts that Tony will be able to sneak up on Nat.

He's right, of course.

Clint has Jarvis slide the cover back on the vent and tosses his quiver up with a clatter he's unconcerned about since Jarvis confirms that Nat's getting off the elevator at Steve's floor. The archer has to hurry; Clint draws a deep breath and hauls himself up into the yawning vent in the ceiling and the blackness within, his muscles complaining unhappily as he pulls and gasps and grimaces at how difficult this easy maneuver has become. The little spike of fear he's been quietly trying to crush since Natasha first drove the syringe into his thigh is a little louder in his mind now but Clint shoves it aside with a snarl. He's too damn busy to die right now; he'll just have to get to it later.

The archer skitters through the vents, quickly plotting his route from the ductwork layout he'd memorized within the first week of visiting Stark's. Clint had told himself at first that that's just what he _**did**_, looked for the most efficient path, but he also knows the underlying reason is that he always needs to have an escape route ready. He'd learned that lesson before he was eight.

Jarvis tells him that Nat's stuck at Steve's door, confounded by the locking mechanism that's being controlled and continually changed by the AI. The Russian's determined, though, and the hawk knows that if she weren't going for stealth his partner would have kicked the door in already. Because Nat's still outside Steve's room, Clint elects to emerge a little ways down the hall and around the corner. The arrow he chooses has a pretty potent knockout gas canister attached - though not as strong as the emerald-tipped arrows designated for taking the Hulk down if necessary - and Clint settles the arrow against the string carefully.

The archer peers around the corner, his sharp eyes picking up the barely-moving dark against darkness that are his partner's precise movements …

And then he hears the whir of Iron Man's repulsors.

A bright blue glow flashes in the dark and the lights of Tony's suit are immediately visible as he strides from the elevator. Clint could kick himself for not taking into account that Tony's usual plan of attack is to attack and everyone else damn well better follow suit because unless Cap - or Clint - is calling the shots, it's pretty much a free-for-all, just the way Tony likes it.

Nat head whips around, a blur of red in the dark, and as she's going for the pistols Tony may or may not have thought about, Clint lets the arrow loose because he just doesn't feel like fucking around with this right now. The canister plunks to a heap at Nat's feet and immediately breaks open; she catches sight of it a moment too late and so does Tony - he catches a hint of it too through his faceplate and Clint grimaces as Tony's head drops and he loses control of his suit just enough to careen into Natasha and send them tumbling to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Clint barely wait's the requisite moments for the gas to clear before stumbling into the pile and gently extricating Natasha, tugging her off to the side and deliberately ignoring how winded this simple action leaves him. He brushes the snarled red hair from her face and wonders what the hell they're supposed to do, wonders how far gone his partner really is and what he has to do to bring her back.

He wonders if she had a plan for bringing _**him**_ back from Loki.

"Ugh, what the hell?" Tony asks blearily, and then "Should I be jealous?" a little groggily as his faceplate retracts and he catches sight of the kneeling archer and the assassin cradled carefully in his arms. "Because I could seriously use a little TLC here, too."

"Don't even go there," Clint warns with a sigh; though he wants to smile at Tony's usual humor, he's too worried about Nat to even really pretend to appreciate it. He glances over at Tony, his eyes betraying his anxiety. "I don't know what to do," he admits quietly. "I know she's still in here … somewhere. I can't give up on her." He offers a half-smile that's not at all amused, is actually more a little sad. "She didn't give up on me."

"We could see what SHIELD can do," Tony suggests, but it's clear he thinks this isn't the best idea since they couldn't do anything for the Black Widow before except send her partner to bring her down, and Clint himself is _**still**_ jumping through their hoops just to stay employed.

A germ of an idea is taking shape in Clint's mind, but he's almost afraid to suggest it. If it were anyone but Tony sprawled in the hallway next to him, he wouldn't even say it aloud, but since it _**is**_ Tony and they're more than a little desperate, he does say it, in a voice unnaturally hesitant for the one it belongs to.

"Tracker," Clint says softly.

Tony's brow furrows. "What?"

Clint's not any more sure this is a good idea when he says it a second time, but the archer braves on. "We can plant a tracker on Nat, follow her back to whoever did this to her. There might be, I don't know, an antidote, or something … " Clint trails off, actually liking the idea a little less now that it's out in the open. "Never mind," he cuts himself off.

Tony, however, nods grimly, visibly working through the angles and details rapidly in his mind. "It might work," he says slowly, and something almost hopeful flashes across his face. "And maybe there'll be something for you - "

Clint lifts a hand. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he warns warily. Dwelling on the thought of a cure for himself is a hope he doesn't even want to consider right now; Nat's the priority, he's just the guy with the bow who wasn't fast enough to keep his partner from poisoning him.

"Right," Tony says dryly. "Wouldn't want to try to help _**both**_ of you, that'd just be too much." His brown eyes are annoyed and his tone is mocking as he adds smartly, "Let me guess: hope is for children."

Clint smiles thinly. "I don't know," he replies, "there may be hope for you, yet."

Tony's voice grows serious as he sees Clint backtracking from an idea that might be their best chance to save both assassins. But the key to Clint's cooperation is Natasha.

"You know they're not going to just let her go," he says quietly, meeting the archer's eyes levelly.

After that there is no more deliberation. Tony retrieves a nearly invisible Stark Tracker and carefully implants it in Natasha's left shoulder, after which he says casually, "All right. I'll keep you posted."

Clint's eyebrows jump. "What?"

Tony gestures toward the archer vaguely, slumped around Natasha in his grey t-shirt and flannel pajama pants with his quiver still strapped to his back. The inventor's trying to be tactful, and it's awkward for both of them. "Look, we know you're, ah, not exactly in the, uh, _**best**_ condition… "

The look Clint gives him is hard and frigid. "Don't say another fucking word," Clint orders coldly. "You're not going without me."

They both have the simultaneous thought that Clint may not make it through this, but Tony latches onto the consolation that if they _**do**_ find something to help the archer, maybe it'd be better to have Clint close.

And Tony can't deny that he'll just feel better with the archer watching his back.

"Okay," he concedes. "But you'd better suit up. And I'm driving."

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Please review if you can! If you're interested, I've posted the beginning of another short Avengers story called "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables." Team angst and whump abound, because, really, that's just how I roll. ;D


	8. I Watched You Disappear

**Thanks for reading! And thanks for the feedback, I really appreciate it! You inspire the Muse and that's awesome. :D**

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**The Screams All Sound the Same**

By: Syntyche

Eight: I Watched You Disappear

_They're sitting at the worn wooden bar in some shitty little town that's somehow too blissfully naïve to realize how close it is to a warehouse-type installation on the outskirts, where bad guys spend a lot of time doing bad things. Hence their presence here. The lights are dim and it feels like there should be thick yellow cigarette smoke clinging to every battered fixture hanging from the low ceiling and curling over their heads; the air is suffocating enough that it's a passable assumption, and Clint's not entirely certain that the few motley patrons cluttering up the small bar really give a damn about the health code anyway because he's pretty sure a few beer bottles are being used for ashtrays, and when he'd checked out the bathrooms earlier the heady smell of sweat and sex still hung heavily in the grimy interior of the men's room. _

_Clint had surreptitiously checked for the guilty couple when he'd come back out, but to be honest he couldn't really tell from the assembled which were actually women; everyone here wore the tired listless faces and sagging shoulders of those whose occupation involved heavy labor with no respite from dull monotony or rest from backbreaking toil in sight. _

_It makes him nervous at the same time it gives him faith in their plan: in the desert of grey faces and hunched bodies, Natasha stands out like a cool oasis, vibrant and alive in every way this place is tired and dry. _

_Romanoff doesn't seem bothered, though, or concerned, and of course she isn't because it's her plan._

_Clint __**hates**__ the plan. _

_They've run this type of thing before, of course, but this one feels different, __**wrong**__, to the archer, and Clint knows exactly why: his cover hits too damn close to home. _

_Literally too damn close. _

_But Romanoff doesn't know that yet, knows as little about him as he knows about her, really. They won't start to talk about their past lives, their long-gone families and idyllic dreams and shattered hopes for awhile yet, not until after one particular and spectacularly failed assignment they didn't think either of them would walk - or crawl - out of. It's funny how looking death in the eye can make you nostalgic for even amazingly awful times in your life: Clint gritted his teeth while Natasha pulled shrapnel from his back as he told her things he remembered about his father other than that he was an abusive alcoholic who beat the shit out of his wife and kids, and Natasha hissed while Clint stitched up her side as she ground out a grudging acknowledgement of useful skills she'd been given in the Red Room._

_They haven't told each other those things yet however, so when they were ready to move past the information-gathering stage of their current assignment and begin taking out bad guys, Romanoff pitched her idea and even though every part of Clint wanted to find another, less personally nauseating option, this really was a solid plan and the archer knew instinctively that showing weakness to his relatively new Russian partner would be a mistake. _

_And it's not like he has a better plan, anyway._

_Clint shifts uncomfortably on the stool, trying to blend in with the dullness suffocating him. He needs to be at a distance; he needs open spaces and a wide vista - this is why he doesn't do undercover, dammit. Clint pulls his worn Atlanta Hawks cap - a gift from an amused Coulson - further over his eyes as Romanoff shoots him an annoyed glance. _

"_Quit wiggling," she says, and Clint gives her an aggrieved look. _

"_Hawks don't wiggle," he says loftily, and the glare she shoots him is a small reward for his cheek. Even glowering at her - a look the Black Widow quickly smoothes over since she's going for approachable-sexy - Romanoff looks amazing, dressed simply in tight jeans and his worn leather jacket. Her long red curls spill over her shoulders and simmer beneath the hazy lights, and she's intentionally leaning forward just enough that her low-cut shirt teases in a way that Clint's really trying not to notice because __**nothing**__ he latches on to in this life sticks and there's no way in hell he's gonna do that to his partner; she's barely into her freshly manufactured mind and she shouldn't have to deal with his baggage on top of trying to accept her new life and place within SHIELD. She's already in enough danger from her own reputation, and being partnered with him is like putting a huge neon sign over her head. Clint had also warned Phil about hanging around him, in his dryly pragmatic way that's not any kind of pity party or feel-bad-for-me-because-life-fucking-hates-me sense, it just the way things are for Clint Barton. _

_But Phil, like the Black Widow after him, just rolls his eyes and says he'll take his chances, thanks. _

_Romanoff jostles his elbow to bring his cautiously observing grey eyes fully to meet her green gaze. "You good to go?" she asks lowly, her Russian accent nearly undetectable as she covers it with a sharper, snide Jersey. _

_Clint grins tightly, wishing he felt more confident about his part and about being more in the limelight in general. He's a marksman, not a fucking actor. "I don't know," he smirks, "I'm not used to being the bully: that's more your role in our relationship."_

_His partner's mouth opens and closes but no words come out, so Clint chalks it up as a win. Totally worth it. _

_They sit, nurse their beers, and wait, and Clint tries to slide more fully into the possessive boyfriend act by drifting a lazy finger down Romanoff's arm. He's pretty sure she wants to glare at him, but what she does instead is turn mossy, simpering eyes his way, so full of admiration and devotion that his breath catches in his throat and he drops his hand and looks down at the bar. In a few years she'll be giving him a similar look and mean it, but he'll do then as he does now: silently admit he's not worth it and turn away._

_His discomfort is interrupted by a creak from the shadowy recess of the entrance as the bar's thick wooden door is pulled open. The second he confirms that the well-dressed man entering unobtrusively is their target Clint pushes everything aside except the job and he leans close to Natasha, barely brushing his cheek against hers. _

"_Time to commence Operation: Sunglasses," he announces, and Natasha ripples disapprovingly at his jest but he's sure she's hiding a smile as their target - a large, brawny man who has clearly watched too many mobster movies, and it shows in his dress and the way he struts confidently to his usual corner of the bar - strides in right at his usual time, calmly demanding his usual in a tone that suggests he doesn't care who's working the bar that night, they'd just better know and mix his preferred drink. He's almost directly across the bar from Clint as he hunkers his large frame onto a barstool, and he immediately and appreciatively catches sight of the stunning, clearly tipsy redhead giggling and protesting as her boyfriend leers at her and buys her another shot. _

_Clint, as said leering boyfriend, notices Sunglasses' attention drifting to Romanoff and steels his resolve. She can do this; so can he. They need this guy. _

"_Dance?" he breathes against her liquor-moistened lips, inhaling just a little too much of the overpowering perfume - laden with extra pheromones - she must have bathed in beforehand. She nods jerkily and, giggling and stumbling, allows him to pull her from the bar with a loud and purposefully unconvincing token protest. He leads his partner to a darkened corner near the electronic jukebox; he'd already scouted his vantage point beforehand so it's simple to casually maneuver himself into a position where he could watch their guy over Romanoff's shoulder. _

_The jukebox's speakers are already spewing some kind of club-sounding beat that Clint strongly feels has no place in a respectful bar, but Romanoff is a __master__; she closes her eyes, picks up the feel of the music, and with a slowly building sway sets her body in motion as she eliminates the already sparse distance between them, gyrating against Clint's slim hips as she lifts her slender arms to loop them around his neck. Romanoff presses in - closer, Clint notes without complaining, than she really needs to, letting her body graze his in all sorts of distracting ways. _

_It might be the first time that Clint Barton gets __**really**__ distracted during an op. _

_Clint tears his eyes away from the challenge in his partner's eyes to note that their target is already knocking back his second drink as he blatantly watches the redhead twist to the music, and in a moment of mutual understanding Clint feels he could clap the man on the shoulder and tell him that no amount of drinking will slake the dry mouth that is a direct result of the presence of Natasha Romanoff. _

"_Ready?" he asks quietly, and he can't himself, he nips at her ear lightly and feels a shudder ripple through her, which pleases him inordinately because really, he's just __**him**__ and she's, well … _

… _into revenge, apparently, because her fingers immediately retaliate by drifting across the flat plane of his stomach through his thin t-shirt and then slide lower, over his belt buckle. Clint's breath hitches sharply but he manages to recover enough to use one hand to pull her even closer to him, trapping her treacherous fingers between them but obviously not enough to stop her from doing __**that**__ so he wraps his other hand in her thick red hair and pulls warningly, just enough to make her gasp behind clench teeth as her green eyes darken tellingly. _

_They realize at the same time, trapped in the highly charged atmosphere of their own making, that they're losing themselves in their roles, and they'll both be in trouble if they don't move __**now**__._

_One more shared breath between them, and then Clint says, "I'm sorry," in a whisper for what he's about to do before releasing her hair to grab her arm roughly, pulling her toward the door. They're both panting and he wishes he could say on his part that it's all an act, but his jeans are uncomfortably tight and he hears Natasha give a small, frustrated moan as their bodies part, unfulfilled. _

"_I said it's **time to go**," Clint snarls loudly, dragging the redhead along with him. It goes against every single instinct he has to treat her like this, but it was her idea and he hadn't had a better one at the time. _

_Okay, Barton, he tells himself resolutely, just channel Dad. _

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"Hey. _**Clint**_. We're here."

Someone jostles his arm gently and Clint rouses himself from a dream that's actually a memory just in time to be embarrassed that he apparently fell asleep with his head on Banner's shoulder during the ride as they followed the tracker Tony had implanted in Nat's shoulder.

To be fair, Clint thought defensively, he really had pushed his body's newly frustrating limits back at Stark's to reach his partner before she'd taken out Captain America; but still this is a little humiliating. God, he hopes he wasn't drooling on Bruce.

And it's a lot _**more**_ humiliating when Tony turns around to smirk at him from the driver's seat.

"Put your shoes on, Feathers, we're at Grandma's," he says cheerily, and Clint shoots him a dark glare as he reaches for the quiver at his feet. He can't shake the feeling that this isn't going to end well …

… and it won't be long before they discover he's right.

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_There is no doubt in Natasha Romanoff's mind about her ability to pull this off. _

_Her partner, however, she's not as sure of. _

_They've only done a few ops together where they were both on the floor, as it were; normally Barton is long-distance while she works the room, but for this assignment it had only taken a few days of recon for them to decide that this guy ("Sunglasses," Barton had named him on the first day, for obvious reasons - and also, she suspects, just to annoy her with inanity) is their ticket in. _

_She just needs to get him to take her home, and misguided and ill-thought chivalry is an old trick but an effective one. Barton looked hesitant when she'd laid out their respective roles, but she'd quirked an eyebrow at him and said "If you want to be the damsel in distress, Barton, be my guest," and he'd shut his mouth, nodded, and that was that. _

_Barton's hauling her toward the bar's front door as planned; unplanned, however, is the heat that's racing through her body from their unexpected contact. The assassin addresses it with narrow-eyed contempt for getting in her way while simultaneously allowing that her increased respiratory function and flushed skin will add more credence to her role as frightened girlfriend. _

_They're in hearing range of their target, winding through small, cluttered tables, when Natasha plants her feet and announces tipsily with a stringent whine, "But I don't wanna leave, baby, my song isn't even over yet…"_

_Something shifts in Barton's expression as he slips more fully into his role and his face becomes crueler, harsher, all angles and hard lines that are set grimly and sternly. _

_Natasha nods approvingly, wonders why she worried. _

"_Let's __**go**__," Barton snaps, and his voice is cold and unrelenting. The fiery passion that had unwittingly ignited between them dies to be replaced by frigid, unforgiving ice. _

"_I. Don't. __**WANNA**__," she whines again and digs her heels in farther, pulling hard on Barton's muscular arm to halt his forward movement. _

_Barton rounds on her, leaning in as he hisses, "Don't make me tell you again," he warns sharply but she ignores him, her lower lip sliding out and trembling as he shakes her roughly. _

"_Robbie, __**stop**__, that's hurts," she protests, dropping a chunk of her inebriated act to replace it with wide doe-eyed fear. Something flashes in Barton's eyes, a blend of disgust at himself and long-buried and crippling despair and Natasha knows immediately that he's about to fold, that he isn't strong enough to continue with this charade because it's set off something buried deep within him, some damaged part of Barton she doesn't yet know about. _

_Nor care about. They have a job to do._

_Natasha draws back, and cracks him hard across the cheek._

_Barton's head whips to the side, and when he swings venomously to face her his mask is firmly back in place and she almost gives a satisfied nod. _

"_Bitch!" he snaps, and she ignores him and goes in for another hit. Barton catches her arm mid-motion, stopping her momentum and spinning her around, twisting her arm behind her and it's almost painful even though she knows she's being as careful as possible. _

_As she'd predicted, their mark rises from his barstool, the only one willing to step in to the very visible disagreement while others turned back to their drinks in a bored haze. _

_Unpredictable, however, is the thick glass bottle he brings down on the back of Barton's head. The archer has a half-second to look surprised before he releases Natasha and pivots a little unsteadily to meet this new threat. They'd agreed during their planning stages that there was a chance Sunglasses would be ballsy enough to try and kick the shit out of Barton - they were going the chivalry route, after all - but they - especially Barton - had hoped that added physical violence would be a last resort and Barton would be allowed to just slink off sniveling while Sunglasses courteously tended to the frightened redhead and took her somewhere she could be "safe" from her overly aggressive boyfriend - his apartment, maybe?_

_She sees the sigh and invisible eyeroll in Barton's expression as he turns to literally take one for the team; a few sloppy hits from his opponent and he's down, blood trickling from his nose as he sprawls on the dirty floor and lifts his hands in surrender; Natasha plasters herself to her rescuer and hopes her frightened but adoring eyes are enough to keep him from kicking the downed man._

"_You okay?" he asks her, and she's watched enough American movies with Barton to think he sounds a little deliberately Stallone-ish. Natasha blinks tear-stained eyes upward. _

"_I just wanna leave," she whimpers, and hides all trace of triumph from her expression that he suggests she leave with him. It's not in the plan - she's supposed to just turn away haughtily - but something causes her to kneel beside her wheezing partner and jab a finger into his solid chest. _

"_Don't ever come near me again," she hisses coldly, deliberately blocking Sunglasses' view of Barton as her eyes question his status. The archer winks at her and cringes from the movement, and she knows he's going to have a hell of a shiner in the morning. _

_It might be the first time Natasha Romanoff notices that Barton's eyes seem to change color; tonight they're hazel when she swears they were bright blue earlier. _

_She knows the second they're out the door her partner will be behind them, following in the shadows, watching her back. It's still a feeling she's getting used to._

_Natasha had thought she could only work alone. Her track record seemed to agree. _

_She's not so sure of that any more. _

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Natasha Romanoff is dimly aware of what is happening to her body while her mind is trapped in memories, and try as she wants to struggle, to fight, to run, she can only watch while her body nods as it's given new orders:

_Eliminate the ones who had followed her here. _

She pulls out her knives.

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Like it? Hate it? Want naked Clint? Please review if you have a minute! 10 bajillion reviews gets naked BAMF Clint and as I type that I'm actually thinking about it, because, well, who _**doesn't**_ want that? lol

The flashbacks are an integral part to the story, so if the all-italic font for those is annoying, let me know because there are a few more yet. :D New chaps for Unwelcome Houseguest and Empty Chairs coming soon if anyone's interested, plus some shameless Hansel whump, because I can. XD


	9. All That's Left Is the Ghost of You

So, Proclaim Thy Warrior's Soul is totally on to me for continually teasing naked!Clint … I can't help it, it's like the most delicious chorus ever: I say "naked Clint!" and a bunch of people say "naked Clint!" back. _Siiiiiigh_. Well, the time for delivering on said naked Avenger is nigh; next chap, gang, but hopefully you'll enjoy this one in the meantime:D let me know!

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**The Screams All Sound the Same**

By: Syntyche

Nine: All That's Left is the Ghost of You

Clint blinks a few times and shakes his sandy head to clear the lingering heaviness swamping his sleepy brain. He hadn't really meant to fall asleep so he's a little embarrassed, and he doesn't trust Tony _**not**_ to make jokes about his lapse of consciousness. He's right.

"Put your shoes on, Feathers, we're at grandma's," Tony says, and he sounds so damn cheerful that Clint wants to throttle him. The archer covers a yawn with the back of his hand, hopes Tony and Bruce don't notice, and tries to hide the movement by pulling on his armguard and buckling it into place before gently retrieving his quiver and running a fingertip over the fletchings lovingly. He can get off a few arrows before he's too tired to pull the draw weight, and he's got his pistols as backup just in case; he just doesn't feel right going in without his bow.

Clint's not thrilled with the new all-around looseness of his usually form-fitting uniform. It's not exactly a second-skin catsuit like Natasha prefers, but knowing that the smooth lines aren't going to tangle up on him in the middle of a fight is a reassurance he's glad he never has to think about.

Or had to … before now … whatever.

He glances out the car window as Tony slows to a stop. The dashboard clock reads 4:02 so they haven't been driving long; about three hours, Clint calculates, since they'd implanted Nat with a tracker and set her loose, accurately surmising that another failure would drive her back to whoever'd messed with her head in the first place. It was a risk to her they'd been leery to take, but with a wounded Captain America, a dying Hawkeye, and a messed-up Black Widow taking up space on the team, their current options weren't exactly bountiful. Tony had correctly guessed that the trip wouldn't take an excessively long time, otherwise Natasha would have chosen practicality over speed for her form of transportation.

An immediate flaw in their plan was that Natasha had stolen Clint's Ducati from the garage (which the archer was less than happy about, but not surprised since somewhere in Nat's foggy mind she'd still remembered his code and where he kept his keys), and if they hadn't all been ready to pile into one of Tony's sleek dark sportscars the Black Widow's lead would have been much greater. As it was, Tony really had to work to follow at a safe distance without losing her, his concentration mostly shot by the fact that his own insomnia-ridden nature meant he'd already been awake for almost twenty-seven hours straight, in addition to being bombarded by spectacularly unhelpful advice from a worried-and-covering-it-by-being-irritable Clint - when he was awake - and a distracted-but-still-able-to-comment-on-his-apparently-less-than-stellar-driving-skills Bruce - when he could tear himself away from playing Star Wars Angry Birds on his StarkPad, a mental distraction the other two suspected wasn't wholly working (or Bruce was just _**really**_ pissed off at those damn pigs) because they could nervously swear that Bruce's eyes were randomly flashing green as he stabbed his way fiercely through the game on the StarkPad he didn't seem to be aware wasn't invincible.

From what Clint can tell, the neighborhood they've stopped in is probably prime landspace for private well-to-doers: large houses separated by long, tree-lined driveways with enough lawn and outbuildings between them that you'd never notice what was happening through your neighbors' windows, let alone in their evil genius basement brainwashing lairs. Clint's actually heard that Tony has a mansion tucked away somewhere, though he's never cared enough to look into it; he'd barely wanted to move into the tower in Manhattan. Just one more thing he'd allowed Nat to convince him of when it was weirdly comforting to his hardened heart that she cared enough about his welfare to take an interest in little things like whether he lived surrounded by teammates who gave a damn about him, or colleagues who couldn't seem to forgive him and didn't want him to forget that.

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Bruce tucks his StarkPad into his messenger bag and shifts to unbuckle his seatbelt. Tony can tell Banner's nervous about coming along, but the doctor also knows that leaving Tony and Clint to their own devices never ends well and there's usually at some point the need for a physicist-turned-EMT on the scene, which unfortunately fits Banner's non-green rage monster skill set precisely.

"Yay, field trip!" Tony grins insouciantly at Bruce over the seat as he takes in his teammates; Bruce looks uneasy and Clint looks tired, and Tony finds himself taking a moment to offer a swift hope that the three of them can somehow pull this off, because Rogers still needs time to heal and they can't afford to wait for a long-distance call to Asgard to maybe pay off or for SHIELD to mobilize itself. They're all Romanoff's got right now, and Tony covers the annoying sense of concern lodging in his chest over the shadows drawing the archer's face that's really messing with the egotistical image the inventor likes to present, and overcompensates for it by making snippy comments about Clint's newly-baggy uniform (another source of apprehension for the archer) just loud enough for Clint to hear. The marksman gives him a dark look and a scowl, but it's tempered by his obvious exhaustion and Tony starts to rethink bringing him along.

At least Banner can keep an eye on him.

They glance at each other anxiously as they trek through the dark. Tony had parked a safe distance down the street and he's worried about leaving the BMW out, but this is an expensive and mostly private area, so maybe they'll get away with it. Another worried look exchanged when they reach the perimeter security, but a shrug between them and Tony simply gives his teammates a lift over the high fence and onto the beautifully manicured lawn.

Tony's got his suit lights off and they make their way cautiously to the warm illumination ahead indicating the large house set far back from the street. It doesn't really _**look **_like a hive of evil brainwashing, but then Bruce doesn't _**look**_ like he once wrecked Harlem single-handedly, and no one ever got the impression that Coulson could kill a man twenty-plus ways with a tie pin.

Tony's at the front, then Bruce, and Clint's covering the back. Tony hears a strangled noise from the archer and whips around; in the early dawn light he can see Clint's bent nearly in half, his fist jammed against his mouth as he struggles to bring another coughing fit under control. Bruce's hand goes to Clint's back as the physicist shoots Tony a worried look; Tony ignores it and scans their surroundings for any other sign of movement. He can't focus on their weak link right now, he needs to manage the whole team. _**All**_ of them, including Romanoff and Rogers.

Tony sighs; he hates this leadership bullshit. He wants to be the quirky comic relief everyone wants to be like, not the guy in charge that everyone adores. Hell, he's Tony Stark: people are going to admire him anyway. He just doesn't want it to be for his ability to lead, when he's got so many other _**interesting**_ qualities.

Clint finally straightens and wheezes out, "Sorry," while glancing apologetically at them with watery, red-rimmed eyes. The archer catches the pity that flashes across Bruce's face and straightens even more sharply. "I'm not waiting in the car like a dog," Clint says firmly, and they move on. They're about halfway across the lawn, dew clinging slickly to their boots, when blindingly bright spotlights akin to football field-style illumination flare on all around them. Tony's faceplate immediately dims to compensate and Bruce's hand flies up to cover his eyes.

"Do we run?" Bruce asks wearily; in the back of his mind, capture had been a forgone conclusion so he isn't all that surprised that it's actually happened.

"I can't believe they didn't even save themselves the trouble of letting us get inside first," Tony mutters to Bruce, who shrugs helplessly. "It seems so much easier than parading out here to parade us in there."

"Yeah, captured by the bad guys after loudly entering via front lawn … who'd have thought?" the physicist offers dryly. "Maybe they're just gonna leave us out here," he adds hopefully.

"Thanks, Eeyore, for that sunshiney thought," Tony snarks back a little grumpily. "We weren't being _**that **_loud." He shrugs his metal shoulders and keeps walking; with the lights on he can see that Bruce is trailing him faithfully but Clint's not. Tony's heart lurches in a momentary triple-beat of panic - maybe Feathers had passed out somewhere and they hadn't noticed?

He's about to turn back when into their illuminated sphere appear dozens of android-style robots, their footfalls cushioned somewhat by the damp grass but not enough that they don't notice them coming.

"Attack or wait?" Bruce asks as they draw closer, ready to follow Tony's lead. Tony has a half-second to make a decision - usually it's _attack_, but they're missing both their archer-assassin and their catsuit-assassin and unleashing the Hulk probably isn't going to pan out until they have a clearer picture of what's going on. It may be the first time Tony's rationally thought out a plan - and unfortunately he'll soon regret choosing to wait. Before he can rethink his strategy, though, he's met with a truly intriguing sight marching out to greet them: surrounded by typical battle bots, another robot body, but there's a holographic projector nestled within the chest cavity that displays a man's pale face, cruel eyes shining brightly on the screen and a spiteful grin twisting his expression. Tony's brow wrinkles as he examines this monstrosity, already thinking of a dozen different ways he could do this and do it a million times better.

"You are one ugly sonuvabitch," he announces as soon as the manbot's in what he deems hearing range; another few steps and it's close enough for Tony to reach out an armored finger to poke at the screen in the manbot's innards curiously. His hand is immediately batted away by a staff that crackles with electricity and blue sparks arc across his gauntlet.

Tony swears and yelps and jerks his hand back, managing to be both surprised and offended that the manbot isn't taking kindly to him jabbing at its "face."

"Be nice or I'm going to play with the other kids," he quips snottily, cradling his arm to his chest dramatically. The craggy visage projected in the manbot smiles grimly and focuses briefly on Tony, then Bruce. "Where's your third?" it questions calmly.

"It's just us two," Tony retorts swiftly, "the Dynamic Duo - perhaps you've heard of us? I'm Robin."

"You, yes," is the dry reply. "It'd be unforgivable not to recognize the figurehead of Stark Industries." The pixilated gaze lingers on Bruce briefly. "You, no. Unimportant." Bruce looks startled, miffed, and pleased all at once to be so easily dismissed, but the manbot's moved on. "Where is your archer?" it wants to know, and Tony can swear there's excitement in the flat tones. "The infected one."

"We left him at home," the inventor snaps. "On account of he's sick, thanks to you."

This time, he's ignored. The volume of the bot's mechanically modulated voice increases as it calls into the darkness. "Come out, archer! We have much to do and of all of us, you have the least time to waste, I fear." It sounds as though it's being completely reasonable, but Tony squirms at the reminder of Clint's speedily impending death.

In response, a black arrow sails into the neck of the robot standing closest to Tony; the inventor swears he can feel it shiver the hair on the back of his neck as it passes him. The robot crackles and shorts and as it crashes to the wet ground a second arrow is already embedding itself into the robot near Bruce. Tony's arms come up as his palm lasers whir to life; he freezes only when the tip of an electric prod is placed squarely against his neck and a matching one presses against Bruce's temple. He's not worried about Bruce, really, but Tony knows that at this distance his helmet probably isn't going to protect him from having his head blown off.

"You have ten seconds, archer," is the only response to Clint's offensive. Clint slips into their circle before the count reaches four; the archer's mouth is set defiantly as he surrenders his custom bow and pistols to one of the guards flanking him and he glares at their host.

"So, do I getta be the one who says 'take us to your leader?'" he sneers insolently, "'cuz I'm having a hard time believing it's _**you**_."

A cold, icy smile flashes at him from the screen. "Through the lovely Black Widow, I am, of course, familiar with the infamous Hawkeye." The way he says it makes it clear he's amused, and Clint waves a hand dryly to cut off the usual taunt that follows.

"Yeah, yeah, Zola, and I bet you thought I'd be taller, too," Clint retorts with an eyeroll.

"How do you know who this joker is?" Tony interjects, looking overdramatically put off; he gets theatrical when he's worried - it's a gift and a curse, he'd long ago decided. "I thought _**I **_was the brains of our little outfit."

"I've always been the brains, Iron Ass," Clint retorts, and gives Tony a deliberately appraising look before adding, "_**And**_ the brawn."

"Ouch, Feathers, you wound me," Tony says with a sigh, but his attention is diverted back to their host - Zola. "What the hell are you?" Tony asks, his curiosity still running unchecked. The question is clearly a sore spot because the manbot turns awkwardly, angrily, and hisses,

"I am a man just like you, Stark, only _**better, stronger.**_"

"Yeah, but I don't have an off switch," Tony replies with a grin; between he and Clint, he can see that they're getting under Zola's, well, _skin_, and they'll take any advantage they can get right now, being short three members of their team and hopelessly outnumbered.

"I beg to differ," Zola replies. A gesture is given and from one of the guard bots, a phaser rifle is lifted and two shots fired. Bruce doesn't even have time to look surprised before he crumples to the ground, two spreading spots appearing darker against his navy buttondown.

"See? Off," is the cold retort, and Clint gapes for a moment before snapping his mouth shut angrily. Tony's already kneeling next to Bruce as the physicist chokes and gurgles, and it's eerily reminiscent of them frantically working over Steve after Natasha had shot him and Tony gives Clint a clipped nod and a dark look: prognosis _not good_.

"Inside," Zola prods mercilessly, "and leave _**that**_ - " a gesture toward Bruce, gasping and bleeding out on the grass - "here for Captain America."

Clint wrests away, drops to his knees beside Tony to pull the dying physicist's head into his lap, but a warning taunt makes him lift his eyes to where a rifle now rests against Tony's head. He feels the hair at his temple part as a muzzle pokes into the short strands there and knows Tony's being given the same choice he is: resist, or save each other.

"I'm sure we'd like to think that Captain America would exchange his charmed life for just _**one**_ of his friends," Zola says, his mechanical tone still conveying the ruthlessness that had allowed him to gun down Banner without a second thought, "but let's not test that theory."

They leave Bruce to die alone on the cold, damp lawn as they trudge inside surrounded by guards. The interior of the large house is decorated opulently, with clean white vaulted ceilings and dark wood; antique furniture and original paintings are arranged tastefully and pleasantly. Even Tony's grudgingly impressed but they don't have much time or interest in sightseeing as they're ushered down a wide staircase into a bright, clean lab. It doesn't escape Tony's sharp gaze that the handles on the containers are wider and thicker than the norm … that _**everything**_, really, that would fit in an average palm is bigger than usual. The inventor glances curiously at Zola's robotic hands and asks Clint in an aside,

"_**He's **_the scientist?"

"Biochemist." Clint's voice is weary; he's feeling the loss of Bruce hard. Tony too, but they have to focus: their objective hasn't changed from locating Romanoff, and now that they know Zola's goal is to bring Cap here … well, they're pretty SOL as it is, but _**maybe**_ their gamble will still pay off and they'll manage to come out of this with their team intact.

"Worked for the Nazis," Clint adds, not bothering to lower his voice, "and some freak accident left him with a shitty robot body and even worse personality."

"I'm flattered you know of me," Zola interjects harshly as he gives instructions for Tony's suit to be removed, something Tony doesn't exactly approve of but neither he nor Clint are willing to risk the other in a paltry show of defiance that isn't going to gain them anything. Tony takes off the suit, leaving him in dark slacks and a t-shirt that his arc reactor shines through brightly.

"What do you think the first thing SHIELD did when Captain America got shot?" Clint demands condescendingly. "On the list of known enemies, there were only a few also into mind control." The archer smiles sardonically, "And you're kind of memorable 'cuz you're so fucking ugly."

"Charming," Zola retorts, patting the archer's shoulder absently as he passes Clint to supervise Tony being herded to press against the wall with the restraints conveniently set at Stark's forearm and calf height, and buckled in securely. Clint's made to stand half-bent with his palms splayed on the low lab table in front of him but other than his guard no efforts are made to secure him in place.

"So," Clint grunts in annoyance, clearly unhappy with his defenseless position, "Is this the part where you gloat like a megalomaniac and tell us your evil plan, because I'd sure as hell like to know what it is."

Tony looks impressed. "That's a big word, Feathers, nice job," - to which Clint snorts, "Hey, I read _**sometimes**_," - and Tony suggests, "Maybe we can change his station to PBS to find out? Like, 'Hey, kids, the Plan of the Day is: World Domination!' or some shit like that." And Tony knows they really shouldn't be taunting this guy, but he really, really hates bad guys - manbots? - as full of themselves as this jackass is.

Plus he shot Bruce, which makes Tony _**really**_ hate this bastard.

A side door flies open, slamming into the wall noisily, and Natasha strides in, looking more pissed off and dangerous than usual. "Why did you not inform me first they had arrived?" she demands sharply, and Clint and Tony share a look at the venom in her voice and her cold, flat eyes.

Zola, however, is unconcerned by her tantrum. "You want Barton? Take him."

"I want them both," the Black Widow replies testily; her hands are flexing like she's unsure what to do them, and every few seconds her head gives a little twitch, like there are voices whispering to her she's trying to shake out of her mind.

"Stark intrigues me," Zola responds, turning away from her in a clear indication he has no further use for the assassin right now. Natasha gives him a dark glare but obligingly jerks her head to indicate the room she'd just come from.

"After you," she says to Clint in clipped tones, and Clint knows Tony's thinking the same thing he is: _**is**_ this Nat with a plan, or is she still as mindless as the automatons surrounding her? Clint straightens slowly, adjusts his leathers, and precedes her as directed without looking back. The door closes behind them, and Tony returns his attention to his host: he hadn't missed the fact that Zola found him _intriguing_, and he's pretty sure that doesn't bode well for him.

"So," Tony says casually, "Looks like it's just you and me and ten of your goons. Can you at least broadcast something interesting while we wait for Cap to come save our asses, because I'd really hate to miss tonight's True Blood." Busy at one of the beaker-filled table, Zola ignores him until he turns back, a syringe clamped in his fist.

"Whatcha got there, HBO?" Tony asks nonchalantly; he can't keep his eyes from being drawn to the exposed needle warily.

"A variation of what's killing your companion, only better, more effective," Zola answers easily, and Tony swears he sounds almost cheerful. "Now that I have a subject to observe from day one, it should prove quite interesting … "

His musings are broken by a long, drawn out scream from Clint that ends in a choked, keening sob they can hear even through the closed door. The blood drains from Tony's face and Zola smiles, insanely pleased.

"Well," Zola says, "perhaps our good Captain will have only one friend to exchange for, after all."

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	10. Torn Apart

**Note!** Some warnings for this chap, just be aware. Violence, language, slight non-con.

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**The Screams All Sound the Same**

By: Syntyche

Ten: Torn Apart

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_Now we're torn, torn, torn apart_

_There's nothing we can do_

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Bruce Banner is fairly certain that he's never been in this much pain in his entire life.

This is a lie he's telling himself, of course, because transforming into the Hulk _**every damn time**_ is the most pain he's ever felt in his life. There's no _getting used to it_, no _next time it won't be as bad _because it's just bad each time it happens. Bones aren't meant to crack and grow, skin shouldn't ripple and stretch. The only mercy he's allowed is that reasserting as Banner takes up every single ounce of strength Bruce has left, so when the Hulk finally cedes control Bruce does little more than fade away into oblivion and wake up somewhere disoriented but thankfully intact and hopefully somewhat clothed.

Blood is sliding past his fingers as he clutches his stomach, the chant _wait, wait, wait_ all he can focus on. Outraged, Hulk is screaming in his mind, demanding to be released and make them okay, howling with rage and agony and it's all Bruce can do to keep him contained, pleading with the monster inside him, the monster that _**is**_ him, to _wait, wait, wait_, they have to wait until everyone's inside and Romanoff is found before Hulk goes apeshit and tears up everything and everyone he sees.

_We have to wait_, Bruce pleads with the Other Guy as Tony and Clint are prodded inside and the lawn slowly empties, but Hulk is still howling in rage. _For Metal Man - for Tony!_ Bruce cajoles as he tightens his arm around his middle: he's bleeding out but he's got to keep Hulk from taking over for just a few more minutes. The mention of Tony slows but doesn't halt Hulk; something about the Iron Man suit makes the Other Guy fidgety. Bruce desperately throws out _Clint, Hulk! Wait for Clint!_ and it's funny that Hulk has a nickname for almost everyone except Clint, but the archer and the monster have some sort of understanding that continues to baffle Bruce. Clint had had a hell of a time undoing all of the nicknames Tony continued to suggest Hulk use for Clint; the archer had finally just settled on encouraging the Other Guy to use _Clint_ and that seemed fine by Hulk.

The mention of his friend reaches Hulk's frustrated mind, along with Bruce's desperate plea to _wait._ The Hulk manages to calm marginally, the barest fraction, and Bruce knows it won't hold for long; he feels the vibrations of the Hulk rumbling under his skin and realizes he doesn't have much time left in this mortal coil if he _**doesn't**_ let the Other Guy take over. He'll stall as long as he can, though, and hope to hell that his teammates are prepared when all hell breaks loose.

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Clint strides resolutely into the too-bright room, straight-backed and calm and overtly aware of the dark and hovering presence of the Black Widow behind him as she guides him forward with a hand splayed against the small of his back. She's armed to the teeth with knives, guns, and her bracers, and Clint thinks she's closer than she needs to be: close enough to whisper in his ear her plan for getting them all out of here, should she so choose.

He strains carefully to listen but she says nothing, dark clouds hovering over her head as she glares and shoves him roughly through the door. He hadn't really held out genuine hope that Nat's in control even if he believes she's still in there somewhere, and he feels Tony's eyes drilling a hole between his shoulderblades as the door closes behind them. A shudder runs through him at the realization he's trapped in a small, confined space with the Black Widow and a couple of Zola's guardbots that Clint's sure are annoying the hell out of Natasha with their mere presence: the thought she needs backup would be more than a little insulting to her.

The room looks like storage space converted into a holding cell; it's mostly empty, though, and Clint wonders oddly what Natasha was doing in here before he and Tony were ushered down into the lab. There is a simple wooden chair near one wall, and Clint has a the sudden, sad mental image of Natasha just sitting quietly in the chair, left with her own altered thoughts, and he wonders again if Nat's still in there somewhere. She'd come back once … they had to be able to bring her out again.

But then she reaches for her knives, and the archer finds himself fervently hoping she isn't, because he has a feeling that what she's readying herself to do will kill her if she remembers it.

The searing lights against the vividly white walls are making Clint's head hurt and a hard shove from the Widow against his shoulder spins him around as she backs him up against the wall, pressing fully against him firmly. It's almost something out of a fantasy he'd never admit to Tasha about having, except his gaze lifts to meet hers as he exhales sharply against the impact and in her cold green eyes he sees nothing of the partner that's been at his back for years.

"Tasha?" he says softly, willing at least to try. "_**Nat.**_ Come on, I know you're there, Red… "

She's so close their noses are brushing. Her expression hardens, her angry gaze narrowing to gleaming emerald slits of hatred. She shifts against him and he clenches his teeth against the gasp choking from his throat; his right thigh is between her legs, his hips flush with hers as she leans back, jutting her hips farther into him. Her knives flash under the fluorescent lights and Clint has a split second to calculate his chances: one Black Widow, two guardbots. Horrible odds since he has no weapon - _**yet**_ - but definitely not insurmountable.

He moves.

The hawk isn't quite fast enough.

The Widow's retaliation for Clint's sudden shift in balance is to swiftly hook her arms around his neck and bring her legs up, locking them around Clint's waist and bringing her full weight down to land on his thigh, the one she knows is already paining him. She grimaces in distaste at the unpleasantly disgusting sensation of the rotting mass of the flesh of his thigh shifting and giving beneath her; the archer's skin turns grey as he screams involuntarily, loud and agonized to her thrilled ears. The Widow grins mercilessly and jerks her hips roughly, grinding in, and his hoarse wail ends in a trailing sob as his leg gives out and he slides to the floor, back arched against the wall, with her still straddling his hips tightly.

"Bad move, Hawkeye," the redhead sneers. "And a waste of energy."

"Why don't you just shoot me already?" Clint questions tiredly with a gesture toward the guardbots standing at the ready.

"Oh," the Widow says with a grin, "they won't shoot you." Her smile stretches, a wide, beautiful smile on the face of Natasha Romanoff that catches Clint's breath. "They'll shoot me," she murmurs simply, "and Romanoff will die."

Her fingers drift through his hair tenderly as she tilts his head to meet her eyes. "Are you willing to let that happen?" she asks.

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_It's one of the worst moments of Natasha Romanoff's life. _

_In the other room, Clint is screaming. He's screaming and screaming and screaming and she doesn't know what they are doing to him to rip the voice from his throat in such an agonized and relentless manner. _

_The horrible part is that she __**could**__ help him. She __**could**__ stop them by telling the location of the beta team. _

_Natasha folds her arms across her chest and glares, when what she really wants to do is wrap her arms around her knees and cry. She promises herself that if they get out of here alive, she's going to tell him how she feels. It's a step toward being __**them**__ she's been fighting against that suddenly seems petty despite Coulson's stern don't-hurt-him speech. Their handler is as protective of Clint as his partner is, and Natasha knows he's got her back just as much._

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The Widow gazes at the man vulnerable beneath her, ignoring the tickling whisper of Romanoff in the back of her mind. Her knives are behind his head and she brings her hands forward, digging the blades into the flesh of his neck just over his jacket and slowing to a stop in the center of his collarbone just above his zipper.

"This has to go," she says easily, a darkly purposeful grin lighting her stunning features. The blades start to drag down through the thick leather of his jacket and she presses in harder every few inches to leave a sticky beading of red behind.

His breath stutters as she slices into his pectoral muscles. "Don't do this," the hawk grits out. "Natasha."

Her red lips curl in a sneer; Romanoff is louder in her mind, going into a frenzy at the glimpses of bare skin tinged with crimson she's leaving. The Widow wonders why Barton doesn't fight more but she knows somewhere in her mind that in addition to protecting his partner, he's sick, that the perspiration dripping down his ashen face isn't from fear. It's not as much _fun_as she'd been hoping for and this annoys her. But there _**are**_ other ways to get satisfaction from Romanoff's partner.

"Tasha," Barton chokes out, "don't."

"Why?" she wants to know, dragging her blades across his ribcage lazily. "Will I regret it? Will I be," the Widow stares directly into his eyes and he sees the abysmal torrent of hatred and lust and confusion swirling there, "sorry?" she hisses, rocking slightly atop his thighs.

"Yes," the archer grits quietly, meeting her gaze.

The Widow sneers as Romanoff's volume increases; Romanoff is trying to claw her way to the surface of her consciousness, trying to regain control and the desperate groaning of the man below the Widow is bringing Romanoff ever closer to the fore.

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_She hears Clint cry out again, and it makes her stronger. He needs her. She can save him. _

_Tasha allows tears to slide down her dirty cheeks. "All right," she announces loudly to those she knows are listening. "I'll tell you."_

_They're stupid enough to send two men in to bring her, and they leave the door open as they attempt to bind her. _

_She kills them with her bare hands and goes to get her partner._

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Barton shifts and moans, and Romanoff is nearly through the mental barriers trapping her within her own mind. The Widow's eyes narrow in annoyance as she realizes that Barton is pulling Romanoff forward whether he realizes it or not. Her eyes burn as she leans forward to cover his mouth with her own and his moans cease as he's forced to fight for air. When the archer goes quiet, Romanoff fades a little and the Widow grins in triumph, the heat of Barton's mouth breathing warmth through her cold limbs.

The Widow pulls back, her breath hissing against his cheek. To her surprise, the voice that slips from her lips in a throaty whisper isn't of her volition as she demands,

"Scream for me, Hawkeye."

Darkness closes over the archer's stormy eyes and his features harden; whatever Romanoff's intention with her request, she's not going to get any willing help from Barton. Which is just as well, since the Widow has already figured that it's easiest to contain Romanoff when she isn't focusing on Barton.

"Go fuck yourself," Barton snarls, and the Widow smiles.

"I could," she agrees lazily, leaning forward to grasp his lip gently between her teeth, "but you're right here."

The Widow watches her words sink in, lets the bubble of nervous terror start to beat under his skin. She wonders how far he'll let her go before he can't stop himself from reacting, won't let the threat against Romanoff freeze him in action any longer.

She sees how aware he is of the guardbots, one gun trained on him and other on her, as she starts with the buckles of his boots, undoing catches until she can slide them off. The Widow _feels_ Romanoff holding her breath at the back of her mind; she's faded just a little farther now, watching tensely but not stopping the Widow as she moves on to Barton's belt, teasing at his navel as she gently releases the clasps of his tattered jacket. The hawk watches her, sweat rolling down his face; he's sick, he's infected and weakened … but she knows that _**she's**_ making him tremble under her fingertips even as he watches her stonily. She picks up her knives where they lay by his knees and glides them over his hips and down his thighs and she smiles as more flesh is revealed to her famished eyes. She leaves the bloody bandage strapped tightly around his right thigh.

Everything else, she takes.

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_Weeks later, when Clint finally opens his eyes, Natasha's waiting for him. Somehow, though, the SHIELD medical bay isn't the place where she wants to tell him anything important … _

… _but she swears she'll tell him soon. _

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Natasha Romanoff is very aware of Clint Barton right now.

The mouth she's no longer in control of is dry; the hands she isn't working roving lustily over places she's only silently wished to touch.

But not like this.

She can't get out, but she needs to. She's desperate: she'll do anything. She can't stay trapped here, not when Clint and Stark need her, not when Bruce is missing and Rogers is heading for his doom if he comes to the dark and evil place.

The Widow controlling her body nips at Clint's collarbone and he whimpers, shifting restlessly under the hips that belong to her but aren't hers to command. The whimper turns into a gasping yelp as her mouth bites down harder, tasting his sweat and blood and Natasha wills him to fight, wants him to fight, _**why the hell won't he fight?**_

But Tasha knows her partner. Knows he won't risk her if he can fall on the grenade himself.

Natasha senses the Widow's lust rising, the heat in her body swelling as her mouth begins to drift lower down the flat surface of Clint's stomach, her tongue gently tracing the grooves and planes of his abs. Clint hisses again, a sharply indrawn breath, and Natasha sees more cracks in the mental webbing keeping her confined. With a sinking heart Natasha wishes Clint weren't doing his best to keep from reacting.

_Don't make me do this,_ she pleads desperately, though she's rarely asked for anything in her life because asking and hoping and dreaming are for the weak. But she'll ask again for this: _Please, please, don't make me do this._

Clint's on the verge of passing out, the effort and the agony finally overwhelming him. Natasha knows that if he quiets, she'll lose her best - maybe only - chance to save them. Her voice is a strained whisper as she again demands, "Scream for me, hawk."

_Please, please, __**please**_.

"Make me," Clint snarls.

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"_Come on. Just try it."_

"_No!" she snaps, uncomfortable at his insistence and at being way out of her comfort zone - strange for her because she thought she'd tried everything. "I don't want to."_

_His fingers are strong and graceful, moving carefully and precisely in a way that stops her breath as she can't help but watch. "What's the matter, Agent Romanoff?" he purrs, his voice rumbling in her ear, "Are you scared?"_

_She wishes her voice wouldn't stumble when she's trying to be disdainful, but it does and she curses her body's betrayal and also that she can't take her eyes off the way his fingers are doing their talented dance. He's giving her that grin she's slowly getting used to: the impish smile that digs under her skin while causing an unwanted warmth to pool in her belly. She doesn't like it. But she's starting to like __**him**__, and that bothers her. _

_She shouldn't let him get to her. But she does._

"_Fine!" she snaps with a dramatic huff and annoyed roll of her green eyes. "Give me that!" She snatches the proffered bow from his hands as he's cradling it carefully and leans close, making sure to brush her chest against his as she languidly dips down to slide an arrow from the quiver slung low around his hips, her cheek barely brushing against his jeans. She draws the arrow out slowly, never taking her eyes from his as she smiles in a way that never fails on her marks._

_Two can play this game, and Natasha Romanoff doesn't like to lose. _

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The guardbots have hauled Barton up and are holding him spread-eagled against the wall. She takes a moment to appreciate the sight of him, bare skin gleaming under the lights. Her knives had made short work of the rest of his uniform, now in tatters at his feet, and he stands naked and helpless before her, watching warily as she selects a long black arrow from the quiver brought to her. She isn't using his bow because she knows she'll just make a fool of herself fumbling with the almost-impossible draw, so she easily pulls back the arrow aligned against the taut string in a way that he'd taught her himself.

The hawk's eyes are closed, his entire body trembling with the over stimulation of the Widow's deliberate touches, and she forces herself to keep his eyes locked onto him, to locate her target and release the arrow.

The arrow buries itself swiftly and easily into the flesh of his palm and he cries out. Despite the horror of it, she feels a rush of grim satisfaction as the cracks in the mental webbing widen further. She's nearly there. It's killing both of them, but she's almost free.

If Clint Barton's own eyes weren't clenched shut in agony, he would have noticed silent tears rolling down the face of Natasha Romanoff as she sights and releases another arrow.

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